


Broken Crowns

by Quilly



Series: Kingdombent [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Awesome, Blood, F/F, F/M, Gen, Kingdombent, M/M, Other, Read at Your Own Risk, Romance, Self-Harm, Violence, a vanity project by Quilly, and the trolls split into two conglomerate nations, in which the Summoner's revolution was effective, no-Sgrub AU, obviously the easy way to do this is through quadrantlocking, we're getting it all up in here, which have an uneasy peace that needs fixing, will update VERY sporadically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 72,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the twilight of the troll race, the Warmblood Nation and the Coldblood Empire find themselves in need of an alliance.</p><p>What better way to secure that than to quadrantlock their heirs?</p><p>Or, Karkat & friends and Feferi & friends get into trouble, fill quadrants, perform subterfuge, and just might end up saving their race in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a fun little side-project I've had simmering on the backburner for a LONG time now. It's my vanity project and will update VERY VERY sporadically, just whenever I get time to work on it, but I'm planning on probably finishing it one day. Even if I don't I'm going to post what happens, don't worry. 
> 
> For a shipping chart, go here: http://aquilldeferred.tumblr.com/post/67708159355/wheeze-it-only-took-three-hundred-years-and
> 
> Enjoy!

==>Karkat: Be the Scion

 

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you’re angry.

 

This isn’t unusual for you, “angry” about describes you on any given day, but today’s anger is mingled with irritability and a desperate dry-mouthed fear, not that you’d care to admit it. But that’s what happens when your quadrants are out of your control.

 

Not that that’s unusual, either. You should probably explain.

 

You are the Scion of Suffering, the Sign of Peace, the Grubloaf of Life, Blood of the Holy One, blah, blah, blah. All this boils down to your ancestor was a douche who spawned you and preached love and equality and stuff you generally agree with when you’re not being fawned over and coddled. You’re the symbol of the Warmblood Nation, their darling and star alongside a few other unfortunate grubmunches, and it’s a tough job because you have _no_ privacy and _no_ personal choices.

 

Also, you’ve had your love life set since the day you hatched. The Nation Council of Elders read the signs of the ancient clade being reborn and whoops, lookie there, ready-made quadrants and friends. _Yay._

 

So for eight sweeps you’ve been resigning yourself to the commitment grub—your chosen matesprit, Nepeta Leijon; your chosen moirail, Sollux Captor. Kanaya Maryam, your keeper, and also included in your coterie somehow Aradia Megido and Tavros Nitram. You had a long time to reconcile yourself to this. And it’s not like you dislike any of them—in fact, you would categorize Sollux and Kanaya as your best friends—but your bile sac fills with venom every time you think of the choices you don’t have.

 

And now, for the umpteenth time in your life, the choice is again out of your hands.

 

You were woken up around sunset by a gentle hand. Kanaya’s, as it turned out. You’d rubbed your eyes and glared.

 

“Wha’ izzit?” you mumbled, feeling her slim fingers peel away your sopor patch.

 

“The Elders are calling a meeting,” she said softly. “Something’s changed.”

 

You sat up. “Changed?”

 

You noticed that she was dressed in her jade ceremonial wraps and bangles and your blood-pusher started sinking.

 

You’re sitting now by your intended crew, your ears ringing and every fluid in you either boiling or churning into bile. You can feel the prickle of Sollux’s psionics raising your hair on one side and the hard knots of Nepeta’s fists on the other.

 

“Excuse me?” you say, your voice too loud even in your own ears. The Chief Elder looks blandly at you.

 

“Why don’t you run that by me again,” you say, “because I _know_ I did not just hear what I thought I heard.”

 

“The Empire’s treaty is to our advantage,” the Chief says. “With the Empress’ failing health, we have the opportunity to unite our coalitions with as little fuss and bloodshed as possible.”

 

“Get our foot in the door, as it were,” another Elder says. “We stand to profit from this as a people, economically, socially—”

 

“At the cost of my life,” you interrupt loudly, and the elders fall silent. You stand and ignore the whisper of your name behind you—Kanaya, probably. “My entire life I’ve followed everything you said. I was finally prepared to go along with your game of Let’s Relive The Past Like a Bunch of Chumps, and now you—”

 

“Think about this rationally,” the second Elder cuts in, calm in a way that makes you want to break something. “Before we knew the Condesce would reach out to us and draft this treaty, we were preparing you for war. Now we are preparing to subvert that path, which means—”

 

“Which means you’re going to toss me to the sharks and let me drown!” you shout. “And the rest of us, I’m sure there are clauses in there somewhere that—”

 

“No,” The Chief Elder says firmly. “The terms are very clear. Heir to heir. The Signless Reborn and the Tyrian Princess, in an arranged matespritship.”

 

Your stomach drops. You sway.

 

“I need some air,” you say vaguely, and tear out for a side-door, clawing at the cloak around your shoulders, your aural clots pounding with the sound of your own pulse.

 

You make it to a cloister and then let go, screaming obscenities at the sky and trashing your ceremonial clothes as much as you can without getting naked, venting the full breadth of your rage. You aren’t aware of your audience until you hear a nervous cough.

 

You turn to see everyone you’ve grown up with watching you, somber—Sollux, Kanaya, Nepeta, Tavros, Aradia, all arrayed in their blood colors with a splash of your abnormal scarlet somewhere on them. You stare back at them and feel sick.

 

“Well?” you say tersely.

 

“That thuckth, bro,” Sollux says. You _steam_. How did anyone ever think he and you were fated moirails?

 

“Thanks for that insight, nookbreath, really hit the mark,” you hiss.

 

“KK, calm down,” he tries.

 

“So help me, if you try to shoosh me I will _lose_ it,” you growl.

 

“You mean you haven’t already?” he sniggers. You throw your boot at him. He catches it with his mind.

 

“Karkat,” Aradia says, “seriously. You need to calm down so we can talk about this.”

 

You glare, but take a few deep breaths.

 

“Okay,” you say. “I’m listening.”

 

Kanaya puts her hand on your shoulder. “First, as your friends, we’re so sorry, Karkat.”

 

You nod once. Aradia puts her hand on your other shoulder.

 

“We need to have a plan together,” she says, “in case this goes wrong.”

 

“It will,” you say grimly. “What kind of plan?”

 

“The Elders are right, this is a big chance for the Nation,” Aradia continues, “and the Empire knows it. Measures to strengthen the ties between the Empire and the Nation won’t be far behind your quadrantlocking with the Princess.”

 

You nod. You expected as much.

 

“I think this is a system we can work, if we’re careful and clever,” Aradia says.

 

“So, what, are we descending to subterfuge?” you frown.

 

“No. We’re looking out for our own,” Aradia says, voice steely. “That’s why I think it’s important we _all_ try to fill quadrants with the Empire’s own clade.”

 

“We should all, uh, fake it?” Tavros says nervously, and you notice he’s grasping Nepeta’s hand. Well.

 

“Not necessarily,” Kanaya says gently. “It would merely behoove us to try. Who knows what serendipity may have in store, but the more interconnected we are, the safer we can make our people. The closer we are to the Empire, the less likely they are to declare war on the Nation and kill us all. Or if they do, we will have the information ready to prepare a counterstrike.”

 

“Okay,” Tavros says, then takes a quick breath. “B-but my flushed quadrant is—is full.”

 

You look at Nepeta, who flushes olive but tightens her fingers around Tavros’ and nods. You look between them and then smile.

 

“Congratulations,” you say. “I’m happy for you.” And you are, strangely enough. Almost relieved.

 

“And a personal promise,” Kanaya says, putting her hand in the middle of your little circle. “The Nation comes first.”

 

Sollux adds his hand in. So does Aradia. Then Nepeta. Then Tavros. He looks at you.

 

You put your hand on top.

 

“To each other,” you add firmly, and the eyes looking back at you are solemn and fierce.

 

==>Feferi: Be the Heir

 

Your name is Feferi Peixes and you’re trying.

 

You are seated outside your ancestor’s sickbed, listening to the guttural wheezing of her lungs and the quiet muffled fluttering of her gills as seawater filters through them via the tank and tubes plugged into her. She denied the dry rot melting her scales and weakening her strength for nearly a sweep before she collapsed, and now the alien fungus is going to kill her. You are somewhat relieved, since that saves you the trouble of having to kill her to take your place on her throne. There is no love between you and the Condesce, but neither is there enmity; it’s always been business between you, honest and clear.

 

Only now you think you hate her a little.

 

“I thought I haddock the freedom to choose my own quadrants,” you say as Meenah breathes. She coughs through a laugh.

 

“You’re naïve, gill, always have been,” she croaks through a guttural cough. “Think aboat it this way: either we do this deal, or the Nation attacks as schooner as my body is sleepin’ with the fishes.”

 

“We can beat them, though,” you protest. “The Empire’s bigger, we have more tech on-fin—”

 

“And once we start infighting, how long will it take the colonies to think they have a shot at harpooning our holds?” she says. “Think, guppy. The only way we all make it out is with the Nation on our side.”

 

“I never thought you’d admit that we need them,” you say, and you’re needling at her now. She laughs and it’s a horrible wet bubbly sound.

 

“I don’t want you screwing up all my hard work. I fought hard to get those planets.”

 

You feel a flush of shame. You know what she thinks of you, how you’re too soft, but you’ve been trying to be harsher, more like her, as you’ve gotten older. However, common sense speaks louder than your pride: the Empire does need the support of the Nation to survive. It’s grown rich since the Empire stopped antagonizing it, rich and large enough to rival you. You know very well that if a peaceful solution isn’t reached, the ensuing war will destroy all of you.

 

You just hate this particular solution.

 

Not that you’re casteist, that’s not it at all! You have lowblood friends, after all!

 

But you know that you were expected to take your quadrants from the clade and you already had a neat system worked out and ready to go. This is a big fat red wrench in all your plans.

 

Eridan is not going to like this at all.

 

“Go tell the fry,” your ancestor rasps. “Let me rest.”

 

You bow, though you don’t mean it, and walk out. They should already be assembled in one of your parlors, and hopefully they haven’t gotten into any arguments or torn apart any of your furniture. You’ll have to sit them down for a very long talk if they have.

 

You open the door and close it behind you and take a moment to compose yourself by studying your crew’s faces. Terezi Pyrope, secretly tucking one of your pillows behind her and you can tell it’s got her spit on it, gross; Vriska Serket, looking bored in a corner; Equius Zahhak, mopping his forehead and perched on the edge of a couch; Gamzee Makara, lounging lazy across another couch but surveying you under his lashes with very sharp eyes; Eridan Ampora, leaning artistically against the decorative fireplace and gazing soulfully into its cold depths. You roll your eyes, sigh, and clear your throat.

 

“The Nation accepted the terms of the treaty,” you say, and your voice doesn’t wobble or bubble. “In a perigee’s time the Sufferer’s Scion and I are to be quadrantlocked matesprits.”

 

The reaction is immediate, but subtle; no one in the room moves more than a limb or an eyebrow.

 

“And the rest a us?” Eridan asks scornfully. “Are we to be pawned off to the lowbloods for the sake of a dumb treaty that won’t last a sweep?”

 

“The treaty makes no mention of any other alliance,” you say, and raise your voice over the sudden clamor, “but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be on the alert!”

 

“Personally, I think this is the dumbest move the Empire has ever made,” Vriska yawns. “Why should we work with them when we have more than enough power to crush them and take them by force?”

 

“Because this is much more fun,” Terezi grins, all of her sharp teeth on display. “And much more economical!”

 

“Nevertheless, a distance should be kept between them and us,” Equius says in a measured, quiet voice. “They must not be allowed to forget that we are, in fact, superior.”

 

Eridan’s mouth twists. “Fat chance a that, but how soon do you think we have before the fightin’ starts up again?”

 

“Hopefully, it won’t,” you say. “We can’t afford to have infighting yet, not when the colonies are restless and the farther we push our boundaries the thinner our armies are stretched. The Empire can’t reproduce enough on its own to make up the soldiers we’re losing on the frontier planets. We’ve already had to pull back twice.”

 

“The last time lowbloods and highbloods worked together it was a disaster,” Vriska says boredly. “How many revolts and revolutions did it take for those whiny rustbloods to finally get what they wanted?”

 

“Two,” Terezi says. “Two very interesting and colorful revolutions. I think it’s in our best interest to at least become friendly with the warmblood clade.”

 

“You would think that,” Vriska snickers. “Tealblood.”

 

“My blood color has nothing to do with it,” Terezi replies, patiently, “but the thought of keeping tabs on the Nation has merit.” She turns her face towards you. “Don’t you think, Princess?”

 

You look at the faces of your crew. “Gamzee? Did you have anything you wanted to add?”

 

He unfolds his length from the couch languidly, golden jewelry clanking and tinkling as he does. His appearance was always wild and barbaric to you, and he frightens you somewhat.

 

“Now, my brothers and sisters, let’s not get our chill in a ruffle,” he says in his strange drawl. “Our small warmblooded brethren pose no threat or means to unseat what is ours by right. They got the riches and the numbers, but not the _divine right_.” His voice has a strange snap to it that sends shivers down your spine—yours, and everyone else’s in the room. “I say let’s up and keep our oculars on ‘em and keep that backhand blade handy in case they slip one betwixt rib and flesh, y’dig.”

 

You nod and give him a brief smile, which he returns with a wink.

 

“Be on your guard,” you say, in your most commanding Princess voice, “but be courteous and polite. We need them.”

 

“For now,” Eridan says, and as one you all exchange looks.

 

“For now,” you agree.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a little bit of headway on this, so I thought I'd go ahead and post some more. Again, don't be encouraged because it looks like I'm updating quickly. This will not be the trend or the norm. But I hope y'all enjoy this story anyway!

==>Karkat: Don’t Puke

 

Roger. Message received. _Oh man you’re gonna puke._

 

You’re staring silently at your reflection as a cohort of servants dress you for the—the ceremony. Kanaya is with you, directing the servants and casually touching you. If you had the choice, you might’ve picked her for your moirail instead, because she would do the job admirably and you feel safe with her. She’d gotten together the clade and as one you’d all slept in the same bed, like you used to do when you were all wigglers. You’d woken up with Sollux’s chin digging into your shoulder and Nepeta half on your belly, your hand in Aradia’s hair and Tavros’ horn almost touching yours, Kanaya curled around your other side, and uncomfortable and hot as it was you felt childishly safe and protected.

 

You’re snipping away that material comfort now. You feel cold and it’s not because of the metric ton of brass and ruby jewelry being strung around your limbs.

 

The Empirical Flagship landed in the wastelands a week ago and it’s been hard prep ever since: preparing you in Empire manners, what you should say and not say during the ceremony, reminders of where your first loyalties lie, and the most embarrassing crash-course on consummation you have ever had to sit through in your life, including the time Tavros found out what the Elders meant by “the chirpbeasts and the stripebugs” and tried to tell the rest of you. It’s not like you’re not aware how that all works, you’re just wondering if you’re expected to…well…you’re just nervous and you want to throw up, let’s leave it at that, okay?

 

From what you’ve heard, the Princess herself is also not happy with the arrangement, and you’re preparing yourself for the snootiest behavior imaginable. You can’t imagine the Empire’s clade is pleased, either, and wonder if you’d be able to spot the nookwhiff who thought they were getting in the Princess’ red quadrant instead. Not to gloat, no, but to know who to watch your back against. You are not unaware that your prospective flushmate is a powerful troll and by going through with this you are making equally powerful enemies.

 

You’ve also heard that she’s a real beauty and roll your eyes. Tyrian has a weird pull on trolls, for whatever stupid reason. You bet she’s not bad, but not as gorgeous as the tales are making her out to be. You’re no looker yourself, after all. Just look at your horns.

 

Once you’re done being swathed in beaded red silk (not as much as you would like, one of your arms and half your chest is bare) and bangles and baubles and whatever, Kanaya lifts your face by the chin and looks you over critically.

 

“The coldblood way of preparing for these ceremonies is by painting their faces,” she says. “The Church wears full facepaint all the time, but for this, the Princess and her coterie and many of the Empirical subjects will have designs painted onto their bodies. They’re meant to frighten and confuse. Don’t let them.”

 

You nod.

 

“They will also be sporting quite a bit of gold and silver,” she continues. You knew this, too. The Nation makes its decorative living in cheaper metals, copper and bronze and iron. “And they will be testing you.”

 

“I know, I know,” you gripe. “Put the Nation first. Remember where I come from. I’m not an idiot, Kanaya.”

 

“I did not say you were,” Kanaya says mildly. “You know your duty.” She kisses your forehead. “But also remember to be true to yourself. You are a strong and good troll, Karkat. If anyone can lead us through this, it’s you.”

 

You feel your lip trembling and bite it to keep it still.

 

You hate this.

 

==>

 

The ceremony is taking place in the Hall of the Ancients, a building carved into a cliff face overlooking the sea and reinforced with titanium structures that make it seem at once a landdweller’s hive and a seadweller’s grotto. The actual room is unnamed, but you’ve taken to calling it the Room of Doom. It’s catchy and it keeps you amused when your thoughts stray into where you are about to go.

 

The commitment grub is squeaking fretfully in its little cage on the altar. You can hear it through the vents as you wait in an alcove for you to be told it’s time. Kanaya is your witness, and she’s keeping up an even tempo in rubbing your back. You’ve made a break for the load gaper twice now and coughed up two bitter mouthfuls of bile, but no more. Your stomach is completely empty.

 

You wonder if the Princess is as nervous as you are. What sort of person she is. If she’s going to kill you and take control of the Nation by force. If you’re going to kill her instead.

 

You need to get a hold of yourself.

 

You and Kanaya are fetched by one of the Elders, who gives you a small smile that does nothing for your nerves. You are led to one side of the hall, Kanaya in front of you, and you wait for the ceremony to begin as the low hum of the crowd, Nation on one side, Empire on the other, ratchets up to a buzz. On the other side of the room stands a twiggy tealblood with a fuchsia cloth tied around her eyes, grinning like a piranha and sniffing loudly. Weirdo.

 

You also see the cloud of hair behind the tealblood that is probably the Princess and you look away hurriedly.

 

A troll with indeterminate blood color (he or she is wearing a thick grey robe) steps forward and places his hands on the cage. The commitment grub stills. The crowd goes silent.

 

The troll beckons. Kanaya and the tealblood walk in measured pace towards him.

 

“Who will witness for these trolls that they are fit to be locked for as long as their spans shall bind them?” the robed troll asks in a reedy voice.

 

“I will,” Kanaya says, serenity itself.

 

“I will,” the other troll repeats, her voice surprisingly solemn for the huge grin still plastered on her face.

 

The troll in the robe parts his hands and Kanaya and the other troll bow to each other, Kanaya a little lower, and stand on either side of the altar. You are looking so hard at the robed troll that you almost completely miss the signal to begin walking. When you do, you look across the aisle and feel your blood-pusher leap somewhere into your throat.

 

The stories weren’t exaggerating. She’s quite lovely, only a little taller than you without the horns. She’s full-figured, but not soft in the way Aradia is. Her curves soften the edges of lean muscles. She’s bedecked in the color of her caste and resplendent in gold and fuchsia jewelry, but it’s the tyrian paint around her eyes accented with gold that catches your attention. She looks fierce and deadly in paint. But you catch the shivers of her shoulders, both bare, and the even pointed fangs that sometimes dig into her bottom lip and something unclenches a little in your gut.

 

You both make it to the middle and turn to face the robed troll, who says something in ancient Alternian that you don’t have the brainpower to translate right now because you are busy feeling the radiating chill from the troll next to you and swallowing down vomit that won’t come.

 

The robed troll takes out the commitment grub and raises it high. You know at this point you and the troll beside you are supposed to hold hands. It seems like it takes a thousand years for the two of you to lock fingers and raise them up. Her skin is weirdly slick, not wet, but ultra-smooth. Her fins flutter. You look her in the face and see she’s glancing at you, her mouth schooled into a straight line.

 

The commitment grub is placed on your joined hands. It gathers itself for a minute, then disgorges a quantity of red silk and flings itself around your joined hands, wrapping them together. The robed troll retrieves the grub before it completely cocoons your hands, and with a little bit of awkward fumbling you and the Princess turn to face the crowd, hands held aloft.

 

There. It’s done.

 

“Hail the Signless Reborn!” the Nation side howls, and the Empire side, not to be outdone, cries, “Hail the Tyrian Princess!”

 

It’s in that moment you don’t even know the name of the troll you’ve just been bonded to for life.

 

==>Feferi: Be a Newly-locked Troll

 

You’re trying, but it’s a little difficult when you don’t even know your matesprit’s name.

 

It seems such a silly detail, but as you hold his hand and feel the sticky strength of the commitment grub’s silk, you can’t help but shake the feeling of _wrongness_ here, like you’ve gone about it all wrong and now there’s no way to fix it. He’s a handsome troll, unusual—stocky, broad-shouldered and solid with an intense look to him that feels less like a challenge and more like a promise. And those _horns_. They’re actually pretty adorable!

 

There’s a reception of sorts for the two of you to go through, a presentation to your respective kingdoms of the bond you made, and you know you should feel more proud or relieved that war, for the moment, has been averted, but you just feel really nervous. You hadn’t been told much about the Nation and its customs. What if you offend him? What if you get something wrong? Eridan tried to tell you that it didn’t matter, but you know that it does. He’s kind of like a ruler to his people, just like you’re a ruler to yours. If you want to make this work and not give Eridan and Equius’ paranoia a place to nitpick, you need to be more educated.

 

You can’t _believe_ you don’t know his name.

 

As the two of you are ushered into a room where you can get the silk dissolved and get your hands back, you try to think of something to say.

 

“Hi,” you end up saying as the solvent is being poured onto your hands, and he stares at you like he’s never heard anyone speak before.

 

“Hi?” he says back, and you’re not sure if he’s returning the greeting or questioning your choices. “The first thing you say to a troll you get quadrantlocked to is ‘hi’?”

 

Definitely questioning your choices. You swallow.

 

“I—I guess,” you say, and he rolls his eyes. “I’m Feferi. Feferi Peixes.”

 

He studies you for a long moment, those bright red eyes of his intense, but contemplative.

 

“Karkat Vantas,” he says eventually. You don’t know why he’s making you so nervous. You’re basically Empress, it’s only a matter of time before Meenah’s disease kills her. And he keeps glancing at you and looking away, which you only know because you keep glancing at him and then…uh…looking away.

 

Okay.

 

So.

 

This is gonna be awkward.

 

The reception is a party that lasts all night and you are basically running interference all night, and you can tell Karkat is, too—making sure the Empire citizens with you and the Nation citizens with him don’t kill each other or anything. It’s kind of cool to watch him diffuse arguments with barely three words apiece. His people listen to him, really listen. You’re having to threaten and call favors just to get Eridan to stop making faces at the psionic on the other side of the room. Maybe the Sign—maybe Karkat can teach you how to do that.

 

Both your coterie and the Nation’s will be staying here in the Hall of the Ancients for the time being while further points of treaty are worked out and other kinks smoothed down, so it’s looking like a full-time job keeping everyone in line. You curse the dignitary who thought alcohol was a good idea for the first peaceful meeting between the Empire and the Nation in sweeps and sweeps, because trolls are stupid creatures anyway but get _really_ stupid when drunk.

 

You and Karkat share a look close to midday. He rolls his eyes. You nod.

 

“Attention, everyone,” you say loudly, in your most Princessly voice, and the stumbling half-there crowd turns. “It’s late. Thank you for attending the ceremony. Please return to your blocks. We have a long few nights ahead of us.”

 

Grumbling, but looking essentially too drunk and sleepy to do otherwise, the crowd shuffles off. You breathe a sigh of relief.

 

“Your Highness,” a troll you think is Nation but can’t be certain bows to you, and then to Karkat approaching. “Your Grace. It is time.”

 

You and Karkat look at each other with panicked faces.

 

“Don’t be silly, children, you don’t have to pail each other yet if you don’t want to,” the troll laughs, and you blush dark pink to the tips of your fins, “but it would be an encouraging sight for the newlylocked couple to be seen retiring to the same respite block.”

 

“Of course,” you say, and Karkat makes a strange grunt. “Thank you.”

 

“Just follow me,” the troll says, and you and Karkat follow him, his arms folded across his chest and yours held behind your back. You feel the eyes of people watching you, and strive to walk as if you don’t know they’re there. It’s hard.

 

The troll pushes open the door and bows. “I think you will find this room very comfortable.”

 

“Thanks,” Karkat mutters, and you enter the room after him and shut the door, sighing and sagging against it.

 

“Well, that was almost forty-two different disasters,” you say tiredly.

 

Karkat grunts again and goes to the vanity, stripping off brass and scarlet rings and chains. You wait until he’s done, then follow suit. To your surprise, the room has been stocked with clothes, decent clothes, for the both of you, and the ablution block with different soaps and creams, as well. Embarrassingly, you also notice the rose petals scattered on the comforter of the single bed.

 

“I’ll take the floor,” Karkat says, and grabs a ratty pair of pants from one of the drawers and locks himself in the ablution block. You set to gathering up the rose petals and throwing them away, then strip the bed of its giant comforter and half the pillows to make him up a spot on the floor. Normally you’d order a servant to do it, but it’s refreshing, doing something yourself because you want to. You don’t want to seem _too_ much the typical highblood. Not right now, anyway.

 

You wait until Karkat is done with the ablution block and pretend you don’t notice the musculature rolling under his skin as he tosses a wad of red silk by the door—not as firmly defined as Eridan or Equius, certainly, but they were trying. Karkat gives the impression of being toned without being sculpted, and his skin has a lot of light grey scars you’re kind of dying to ask about but won’t, because that’s awkward.

 

You flit into the ablution block and definitely don’t enjoy the smell of his soap afterwards, nope. What is wrong with you?

 

Alright, you think as you scrape your paint away, objectively, the Signless Reborn is definitely an attractive fellow and you could have done worse. But you barely know him, and he barely knows you, and you are an _Empress_ , not a lovestruck six-sweep-old who still giggles over the word “bucket”. You are going to be professional about this, and you are _not_ going to worry over your hair and if you look too plain without the face paint now because that’s silly.

 

You are going to get into bed, you are going to smooth a sopor patch on, and you’re going to sleep this entire debacle off.

 

“Sleep tight,” you tell him as you settle into bed, and in the dim darkness you see him wave an arm in your direction and nestle into the comforter.

 

The bed’s actually quite huge, with just you in it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just writing a lot recently. When the semester kicks into high gear I'll probably be too busy to update this often. But for now...enjoy!

==>Eridan: Sneak

 

Your name is Eridan Ampora and you do nothing of the sort, thanks.

 

You merely stride through the halls without wanting anyone to see you.

 

Also you’re looking for a specific block.

 

You check your palmhusk again. Which one is it…? Ah, here we go.

 

You slip inside, wait for a count of five, and then murmur in the dark, “Ter?”

 

You hear her deranged giggle from somewhere to the right of you. It’s not dark, just cluttered, how has she managed to make it this messy this quickly?

 

“My, my, Prince Sourgrapes, don’t you know it’s terribly rude to sneak into a lady’s chambers at day?” she purrs, circling you, and you fight to keep your grin off your face. Not yet.

 

“We have things to discuss,” you say, in your quietest and most commanding voice. “I wanted to compare notes about the Nation’s clade and what—”

 

Oh, dear, that seems to have done the trick; she’s all over you now, first kissing you until you can’t breathe, and then putting that marvelous mouth of hers to work on the sensitive skin of your neck, just under your gill slits.

 

“Pailing now,” she murmurs, “talk later.”

 

Well. You heard the lady.

 

==>

 

It’s in the early stretches of sunset when you blink awake from your doze to the sound of Terezi quietly cursing. She stubbed her toe, you think, and yawn. She’s also wearing your shirt. Lovely. You watch her pace and worry at a hickey on her collarbone and think to yourself that she’s made of twigs and razor blades, that should not be as attractive as it is. And yet, you watch her and start to purr low in your chest. You can’t help it.

 

She sniffs in your direction and grins. “Evening, sleeping beauty.”

 

“Ter, come back to bed,” you whine, because usually she does when your voice gets strident. She rolls her blank red eyes at you and flops onto the mattress. You reach out and flick one sharp horntip. She nips at your fingers.

 

“So,” she says. “The Nation.”

 

“What about ‘em?” you say, continuing to flick her horn until she crawls up and under the covers for snuggles, though it’s a little harder to focus on what she’s saying when she throws one of her legs around your waist.

 

“I’m curious about them,” she says.

 

“Why?” you ask.

 

“Because they are an unknown,” Terezi says, contemplatively. “The reports from the Fringe trouble me, as well.”

 

“What reports?” you frown. “Nobody’s told me a thing.”

 

“Because you don’t have a spy network, Prince Eggplant,” she grins. “Reports say the indigenous populations are stirring.”

 

“So send a few brute squads in an call it done,” you yawn, running your fingertips over the skin of her thigh. “I’ll head one myself an make sure it gets implemented properly.”

 

“Oh, Eridan,” she sighs, and you feel a prickle of unease, “you are a barbarian.”

 

You frown deeper.

 

“Not everything can be solved with force,” she says. “And not everything that can should be.”

 

Well that makes no sense. You tilt her chin up to study her sharp face and ruined eyes.

 

“Some things do,” you say, and lean in to kiss her.

 

Things are getting interesting when both of your palm husks vibrate. She pulls away from you with a sigh and slides out of bed.

 

“Meeting,” she says. “Get dressed. Leave ten minutes after me and make sure you’re not seen.”

 

You scowl and sit up, grabbing Terezi around the waist and pulling her down onto your lap, planting smooches down her neck and to her shoulders.

 

“Fef’s quadranted,” you say. “We don’t have to hide anymore, Ter.”

 

She scrunches her claws through your hair as you nip her skin.

 

“Not yet,” she says. “We need to give it a little more time.”

 

“Ter.”

 

“I promise, we’ll tell them, but not now,” Terezi says, and turns around in your lap so she’s facing you. “Patience. If we go public too soon it’ll go badly. You know people will talk.”

 

“Let ‘em talk,” you say, and, mostly just to say it, “I’m your matesprit. Not Fef’s. Not anymore.”

 

She grins and kisses you until your back is on the mattress again.

 

“I was never going to give you up anyway, Prince Sourgrapes,” she murmurs against your mouth. You smile. “You’re all to myself, always were, always will be. I’d fight Empire and Nation for you, fight Empress, fight insurrection—”

 

“Terezi,” you breathe, because she can get going but _gog_ you love her, you’d fight everything and more just the same for her—

 

She sits up and pulls off your shirt, tossing it at you and winking.

 

“Ten minutes,” she says, and you try to catch your breath and hope you have a shirt collar high enough for tonight.

 

==>Nepeta: Wake Up

 

Your name is Nepeta Leijon and you’re _trying_ , but your matesprit is really warm, okay?

 

It’s a relief to not have to hide it anymore; you’ve been dreading what you would say to the Elders ever since you were seven and Tavros shyly offered you a bundle of flowers and asked you to the market with him. You were conflicted then, because you were getting over a crush on Karkitty and you knew that it was more or less forbidden for the betrothed matesprit of the Scion of Suffering to even entertain the prospect of taking a different flushmate, but he was just so _sweet_ you couldn’t not go. And you’re glad you did; even though he’s allergic to cats he’s really kind and gentle and he doesn’t sometimes make you feel dumb or pulled apart like Karkat does. Not that Karkat is mean, but…he’s not exactly tender. Not towards you, anyway. And you like to cuddle!

 

You just crashed in Tavros’ block because it was open and Tavros himself was smiling vacantly at the party, which meant he was pretty sloshed. You think he was drinking a lot because the weird blueblood with the eyepatch was giving him trouble before Kanaya chased her off. You snuggle under Tavros’ chin and lick his throat to wake him. He stirs, thick arms stretching and his horns swinging dangerously before he settles back down and opens one soft brown eye at you.

 

“Evening,” you chirp, and he grins and kisses your forehead.

 

“Good evening.”

 

You skip out of the reach of his arms and root through the overnight bag you hauled to his block for funsies, because you helped him here and he’s fun and cuddly when he’s hammered. He’s fun and cuddly anyway, but that’s beside the point. You shimmy out of the boxers and sleeveless shirt you stole from his bag and into your own clothes. If anyone asks, no, you haven’t Done the Do yet, but you haven’t needed to yet; just taking it slow and enjoying the freedom of being open about it is enough for you. And for Tavros, though he’s giving you the kind of slow grin that does things to your…everything.

 

“Lots of meetings today,” you say after trying once and coughing out the crack in your voice. He sits up and stretches, and you know for a fact he’s showing off, twerp—showing off his glorious figure in hopes you’ll stray close enough to be engaged in a tickle fight or something. Nope! Not today, you actually have things to get done. You throw a pair of pants at him and they hook onto one of his horns. “Get dressed, we have coldbloods to argue with and pawsibly an alien invasion to stall!”

 

“Alien invasion?” Tavros frowns, pulling on his pants and opening his hands for you to throw him a shirt. “What do you—uh—mean?”

 

“Pawllux and I have been keeping tabs on the Empire’s holdings,” you explain as you work a brush through your hair. It’s hopelessly knotted and you start tearing chunks out before Tavros plucks the brush from your hand and gently starts working out the tangles. “Espawcially after they proposed the treaty. We think they’re having a hard time hanging onto their expansions.”

 

“Why not let it just…collapse?” Tavros asks. You sigh.

 

“Have mew ever even been outside?”

 

“Yes,” he says defensively.

 

“What’s outside?”

 

“Trees…and dirt…and…where are you going with this?”

 

“I mean we get a lot of imports furom the other planets we occupy,” you explain, then yowl as he tugs on your hair accidentally. “If we lose those holdings, we lose a lot of the goods and revenmew we need to survive.”

 

“The Nation does fine,” Tavros says. “When there are long shipments in between Empire trade vessels, I mean.”

 

“We get by,” you correct. “We need the economy to stabilize as much as they do.”

 

He finishes with your hair and nuzzles you. “Not that you’re not smart usually, but, you sound, uh, especially smart, when you start talking about that stuff.”

 

“You need to pay more attention, Tavros,” you say despairingly, and nuzzle him back. “Anyway, there’s a chance some of the indigenous aliens will attack us. Bluebloods aren’t exactly diplomatic or peaceful when they take a planet.”

 

Tavros’ brow furrows, and he bites his lip.

 

“Would they be wrong, though?” he asks, softly, as you pull on shoes (uugh, shoes). “If they attacked the Empire?”

 

“Do you think they’ll make the distinction between us and them? Especially with the pawlliance now?” you ask frankly. “We’ve gotta help smooth this mess over befur it comes back to bite us.”

 

He sighs and shakes his head.

 

“Okay.”

 

You smooch his cute face and grin. “It’ll be fine. We’ll get it straightened out. You’ll see.”

 

You hope you’re not lying to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably warn you about guts and gore in this chapter. Entirely imaginary, but vividly imagined, so if you have problems with that, I would advise caution. We're entering the head of Gamzee Makara in the second half, so big warning about that. 
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy!

==>Karkat: Deal with Stuff

 

Working on it, thanks. Just as soon as you work this kink out of your neck.

 

The floor isn’t comfortable. Also your matesprit—Feferi—snores. But when seadwellers snore, they have a weird double-snore thing going, because you swear she’s snoring out her gills, too. It’s weird. You’d lain awake most of the day listening to that racket and wondering if you should go roll her over or something.

 

She’s gone by the time you wake up from your drowsing, though, so you get dressed in clothes that cover up all of you and check your palm husk for where you’re supposed to be meeting this morning. After grabbing breakfast, you’re starving.

 

Sollux is walking down the hall as you exit, and he gives you an impressive eyebrow waggle before you punch him very hard in the arm. He winces, but keeps doing that stupid _eheheheh_ giggle of his.

 

“Nothing happened, you enormous douchewaffle, stop laughing,” you grump.

 

“I will thtop when it’th not funny,” he lisps at you. “You know you’re allowed to get freaky with your matethprit, right?”

 

“Gee, I wondered why you didn’t have one, and then I realized it’s because you’re a jerk with the sensitivity of a ninety-sweep-old cholerbear’s leathery rump,” you snap.

 

“Thtop being tho theriouth, I’m joking,” he rolls his eyes. “Did you get the meeting thchedule for today?”

 

“Yeah. Stuck in a debate with a room full of Empire dignitaries and the clades, what a delight,” you groan. “We’re gonna be up to our eyes in the hoofbeast feces of economic overturns and tales of doom and destruction before lunch, just you wait.”

 

“AA altho wanted to have a private meeting, jutht our crew,” he says, and you nod wearily. You should’ve gotten more sleep.

 

“We’ll fit it in somewhere. Where’s the food in this place?”

 

You wolf down a breakfast that mainly consists of coffee and a sweet roll before you’re ushered down to the block they’re using as a conference hall and seated across from Feferi, who looks a lot less intimidating out of her ceremonial clothes. She gives you a smile and you sort of nod and twitch the corner of your mouth back at her and ignore that your cheeks feel a little hot. Matesprit. Weird.

 

You observe the Empirical clade as they file in. You don’t like the look of any of them at all, but the indigoblood with the facepaint unsettles you most of all. He gives you a lazy grin and a wink, but they don’t look friendly. Mostly condescending, you think. It’s something about the glint in his eye, you don’t know. You’ll need to keep an eye on him.

 

Also the seadweller with the pretentious purple stripe in his hair, because when he enters Sollux gets weird and staticky and you can tell the two of them are making pitch eyes at each other and oh _no_ that is not gonna fly, nope. You hit Sollux in the back of the head and glare at the other guy. He scowls, but backs off.

 

Introductions are made, you file away names for later (Gamzee and Eridan are the names of the bulgelickers that worry you), and an Empirical dignitary and a National Elder take their seats at the head and foot of the table. You release a breath through your nose and wait for the proceedings to start.

 

Feferi clears her throat. “Thank you for coming, everyone. Lord Ampora, could you get us started?”

 

Lord—oh, Eridan. You didn’t realize they had actual titles. He draws himself up a little and flares his fins and looks even more like a douche than you thought was possible. He starts up with a droning speech about how “honored” this occasion is, how “great” it is that the Nation and the Empire are working together again, and then once the crap is out of the way he gets down to brass tacks: the trade portion of the treaty.

 

In a nutshell, the Empire wants a bigger piece of the Nation’s agricultural exports in exchange for ores that can be used for different resources here planetside, mainly infrastructural. That’s Tavros’ area, though you watch him closely for signs of agitation. So far Tavros seems to be calm and open, and manages to negotiate the Empire into trading both ore and actual machinery in exchange for a little over a third of the crops and livestock produced each sweep. That doesn’t sound too terrible, especially if you manage to ratchet up the Empire’s colonial imports enough to make up the difference after you sell back some machinery of your own…

 

It’s a long day and although nobody’s temper snaps, you do get into a disagreement with Gamzee about the ethics of mandatory mass (which you know very well is short for massacre) for the influx of new Nation troops that are going to undergo training in the Empire camps and you can feel a migraine coming on behind your left eye. And you can just _tell_ that this is something that’s going to come up again, the stupid twist of his mouth when he looks at you says everything right there. You wonder if he’s the one who was going to be Feferi’s matesprit before you and feel a shudder run through you. Of all the panleaks in this stupid conference, it _would_ be the one with the chucklewhatevers.

 

Aradia’s meeting is called just after dinner in one of the many, many alcoves in this place. She opens her mouth to start the meeting, but Sollux holds up his hand for a moment. There’s a zap from his eyes, and a sharp yelp outside the door that sounds female. Sollux grins.

 

“Go on, AA,” he says smugly.

 

You’re not even gonna ask. You’ll just find out who has scorched hair and a guilty expression later.

 

“First things first,” Aradia says. “Karkat? How did everything go?”

 

You feel the oppressive weight of five expectant pairs of eyes and grimace.

 

“Fine,” you say, which was the wrong thing to say because now everyone is either grinning or giggling. You slap the nearest one, which happens to be Tavros. “Shut up. Don’t forget who she is and what she stands for, you dipsticks. And for your information, I am still in full retention of my maidenly virtue. I did not become a man or whatever stupid cliché you can think to add in here. We slept on opposite ends of the room and said maybe four words to each other. _Shut up!_ ”

 

“On the one hand, I am pleased that the Princess appears to be the most reasonable of the clade,” Kanaya says, and you think you’re saved. “On the other hand, Karkat, are you…quite certain…you weren’t taken advantage of?”

 

The atmosphere is more sober now. You roll your eyes.

 

“She’s about as capable of doing that as Sollux is of having a manageable ego,” you say, and ignore the middle fingers presented your way. “I’m _fine_. Feferi is kind of an airhead, but she’s nice enough and I don’t think she’s going to turn into a psycho serial killer.”

 

“She is a highblood,” Aradia muses. “It’d be wise for you to be on your guard.”

 

“If I were any more on my guard I’d be sleeping in full armor,” you grump. “If we’re done hashing out the nonexistent details of my quadrant life, next?”

 

“What do we think of the clade so far?” Aradia asks, and you’re all silent until Nepeta speaks up.

 

“The big sweaty gross one bothers me,” she says. “I mean, he put a huge crack in the table just by putting pressure on it and he was breathing really hard and looked really angry whenever any of us were talking.”

 

“I found him particularly distasteful,” Kanaya says, delicately wrinkling her nose.

 

“I think he’s got a lot of issues he doesn’t know how to work through,” Nepeta continues. “I mean, did you hear him when he was talking to Vriska?”

 

“I wasn’t paying attention,” you say boredly. “What does any of this have to do with making sure they’re not trying to stab us in the back?”

 

“I’m just saying,” Nepeta says sullenly, and her face is tinged green—why is she blushing? “He just seems really…messed up.”

 

You roll your eyes.

 

“Anything else?”

 

“That Eridan jerk hath hith nothe really high in the air,” Sollux says, and he crackles a little with energy. “I’d like to take it down a peg or two.”

 

“Don’t go picking a caliginous fight with the clade right now, Tholluckth, that’s the opposite of what we need,” you grump. He glares at you, but, curiously, doesn’t press the issue. “Seriously. Does anyone strike you guys as really dangerous or shady right now?”

 

“Gamzee,” Aradia says firmly, and you feel another prickle down your back. “He makes me nervous.”

 

“Nervous how?” you ask, just to check.

 

“Nervous in that I feel like he’s unpredictable,” she replies. “I can’t even begin to guess what’s going on in his head. He doesn’t talk much to anyone.”

 

“Not like Vriska,” Tavros says softly, and you look at him. He browns. “She…uh…I think she’s trying to blackflirt with me. And she makes me feel…” He clenches and unclenches his fists and kneads on his bottom lip, a scowl edging onto his face. It’s a little terrifying. Kanaya reaches over and touches his shoulder.

 

“Would you like me to intercede?” she asks, and after a moment’s hesitation Tavros nods.

 

You think you’re witnessing a textbook ashen come-on and wonder if anyone else is getting this. By the lingering color in Tavros’ cheeks and the curve of Kanaya’s mouth you think you’re not.

 

“Tomorrow’s gonna be more of the same, so everybody needs to keep their noses clean and don’t pick any fights,” you say. “And remember the mission. Quadrants if you have to, but please, for the love of gog, don’t make idiots of yourselves. I know that’s hard, but do your best.”

 

“Inthpiring wordth,” Sollux intones. You flip him off.

 

“Get out of here,” you say grumpily, and you all file out of the alcove. Meetings are done for the day, so you think you might just wander around. Orient yourself around the building a little better.

 

You set off and idly think that maybe you should find Feferi and talk to her about today, then push it down. If you’re sleeping in the same room, it’ll come up eventually.

 

Probably.

 

==>Gamzee: Find the Scion

 

Your name is Gamzee Makara and you’re busy laughing yourself silly at the burn and look of Vriska Serket right now.

 

Sister has part of her hair in smoke and her face all a-twist, and between giggles and her getting real peevish-like you ask her what happened.

 

“That stupid mustardblood,” she snaps. “He practically fried my skin.”

 

“Were you getting your snoop on in places you oughtn’t to be snooping?” you ask leisurely, expecting affirmative because that’s her job. She and Terezi are the oculars and aural clots of Feferi and you already had a lazy conversation with the female rustblood from the Nation about putting her own snout where it don’t belong. She rolls eye at you.

 

“Of course I was. But I didn’t hear anything.”

 

“Looks like you’re a sister what needs schooling in the art of stealth,” you say, and before she can snap at you, you shrug and turn around. “Thought you woulda had that down already, seeing as you’re the one with the spider thing going down, but hey, maybe you’re just stupid.”

 

You lope off, grinning to yourself at the obscenities she spews your way, and think that it’d be an awful nice thing to find the nubby mcshouter.

 

Not for any particular reason, you’re in a mood what’s good and he amuses you. You like being amused. Little darker whispers murmur in your head about making him your toy, and you nod along but don’t give comment. He’s the property of the Princess and you don’t think she’d take too kind for you to flay open the Scion and pull him out, pull him all out, and then laugh at the joke. Not yet. Not so near Nation soil.

 

You think about how you’d tie him up, with what knot and what rope, what instrument you’d use to peel skin and disrupt organ, if you’d just tear in and wash your mitts in the miracles of his gory red insides. Never did see a color akin to it, never one so bright and bold, you wonder if it’d burn to touch—

 

You stumble into a body and make like to snarl when the body beats you to it.

 

“Why don’t you look where you’re going, you quivering stack of stale excrement? I’m walking here,” the voice says. You know the rasp of it and glare down, fearsome as you can manage.

 

“Better question,” you ask the Scion as he glares hot red at you, “why are you treading where my feet are making towards?”

 

He’s a tiny troll, nose to your chest, but he seems taller when he inflates lung and opens his mouth, and then he pours out steaming invective, blistering-hot and all shades of rude. You think he insults everything from your lusus to your lack of shoe and back around again, and you glare down and think about his guts slipping through your fingers and _reach_.

 

Your fearmongers are always just under surface and within reach, ready to envelop, ready to show your bloody Messiahs to the weak-panned and the unfaithful. You wrap him in darkness and he grits teeth, you see sweetest fear and think to pop out his oculars to taste it again and again—

 

Then the little one _shrugs_.

 

_SHRUGS._

 

And all your whimsy and your harshness slips out of his pan and onto the floor like blubber, useless and spent. You coil your pan and strike, but it can’t penetrate, can’t grasp purchase or make dent, all is a solid scarlet wall in his mind and _you can’t touch him_.

 

“That’s disrespectful and completely illegal,” he says, voice like soft snicks of iron and rasp of leather, and you draw all back within and _stare_.

 

“Who are you?” you ask, because ain’t nobody ever got the drop, ain’t _nobody escaped your bloodright_.

 

“You know very well who I am, bulgetard,” he says, voice not high and haughty but ringing with expectancy nonetheless. “Your stupid mind games don’t work on me.”

 

You wet your lips and you draw a breath, but he talks.

 

“Now listen,” he says, “I think I made it clear tonight what I think of you, so from now on, you keep away from me, got it? You go sulk back to whatever corner you can find to sniff your unmentionables and keep your pan stuffed back inside your head. If I hear of you controlling or manipulating any of my clade or my matesprit’s I’m going to come back here and we’re gonna have so many words your Neanderthal thinkpan won’t have time to parse them together before I verbally tear you a new nook to shove your head into.”

 

You mouth. Ain’t no one ever said words so salty. They sting. They _burn_. You wanna smash his presumptuous head against the wall and you want his brains on a wall and you want his mouth in a jar so as to keep it and have him never shut up.

 

Wait, what?

 

“Are we clear?”

 

You glare fearsome as you can but you feel cowed and cowardly and your guts squirm.

 

“And wash your hair, it looks like baby chirpbeasts should be popping out of it and waiting for their mother to feed them worms,” he says, and shoves past you. You watch him walk off with purpose and you clean out aural clot to be sure they’re working right. They are.

 

You feel shaken and unsteady and look to find the chapel. You need some time to think on this.

 

Prayers and hail minstrels do you no good as you pace, and you feel chucklevoodoos slick like oil curling around you in tentacles but without place to go, without mutant-blooded loud-mouthed freak to tear and crush, it all worms its way back inside, showing you visions of your own purple flung across the stones and shadowy Messiahs your Old Man learned you into knowing turning their backs and whispering, whispering, whispering, _if he can’t even subdue one mouthy heretic how’s he gonna lead brethren to salvation and ruination, worthless, worthless, can’t make ONE MAGGOTY TROLL KNEEL_

 

You wake up and have the groggy thought that you’ve done some terrible harm to yourself and peel your body, sticky with saccharine and spent, off the floor. It is day and you meet no one on the way to your block.

 

You fit claw into scrape on your skin as you wash off, grimace with the sharp pain of it, and run hand through hair and realize the shouty one was right, it’s tangled up like a nest and could probably use a good brush.

 

You never did care before, but you take care now, and halfway through your ablutions you realize you’re imagining hot little hands carding from scalp to horn to hairtip and bang skull against wall.

 

No.

 

Ain’t no unfaithful thought gonna pass through your pan, ain’t no troll who can replace the mirth of your faith. Especially not a troll what has a mouth like a firing squad and eyes like a brand.

 

You fall into bed and shiver your way into sleep, ignoring sopor patch and pill and slow creep of sun through slits in the windows.

 

You dream of broken windows of stained glass and a loud, rough shout chasing your demons back into the depths of your pan where they belong and wake up refreshed and unsettled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am busy, busy, busy with school, but after something like an emotional breakdown this past weekend I took some time to sit down and doodle some more of this fic. Some mild kinda-horror at the end of this chapter but in my mind it's more hilarious than anything. Enjoy!

==>Terezi: Effectively Snoop

 

Your name is Terezi Pyrope and of _course_ that’s what you’re doing.

 

You quite enjoy the new clade and think the treaty is a good idea. Your own clade would scowl and complain at you for it, but it’s true, it just is. You’re the one troll in the universe with the best idea of what’s going on beyond your borders, after all.

 

You wanted to be a legislacerator once upon a time, but like the rest of the clade you were instead groomed for leadership and cunning and you took to it admirably. You are ninety-nine percent loyal to Feferi, as she is a very sweet girl generally and has a good head on her shoulders, but your loyalty is both to her and to your species as a whole. Call it the taint of your ancestor, as one dignitary so kindly called it to your face, but you believe the reunion of warm- and cold-blooded trolls to be vital to your survival. And it’s not as if there’s total isolation between the two, either, so you think your matesprit’s attitude towards the Nation to be both idiotic and dangerous. (Your dumb beautiful one percent of disloyalty.)

 

You pity him ever so much but he is, unfortunately, one of the smartest dullards you know.

 

The meetings after the quadrantlocking ceremony (during which you played Feferi’s witness, an incredible honor you were not at all expecting and took great pleasure in) have been going on for a week now, and more or less seem to be moving smoothly but you know patience is wearing thin on both sides. The current stalemate is over the absolute necessity of striking at the growing insurrections versus attempting to negotiate with the rebels. You tend to lean more towards the Nation’s mode of thinking but you also know that at this juncture, the subjugated aliens are not likely to listen to treatises. It seems that you and the jadeblood, Kanaya, whom you like immensely both for her sense of style and for her reasonable personality, are playing auspistice trying to get the clades to behave and the matters worked out on compromise they can all live with.

 

Curiously, the two butting heads most are Tavros Nitram and Vriska, and Kanaya seems to be doing some very literal ashen mediation between them. Tavros, you know, appreciates. Vriska does not. They lock horns, so to speak, over every little detail even remotely involving either of them—Tavros is peaceable and Vriska is confrontational so from the get-go it seems a recipe for disaster. Tavros is surprisingly snappish behind his hesitating speech pattern and soft voice. Vriska is…Vriska. Convinced she’s always right, ready to leap in all guns blazing before even thinking about the situation, stupidly proud of herself and overconfident about everything.

 

She makes a terrible spy but a wonderful captain, if she ever figures out how to inspire others without talking herself up too much.

 

Anyway, it’s during a lull in the peacemaking, as decreed by Karkat Vantas, on the grounds that he is “tired with putting up with all of you numb-bulges and I need food anyway.” He’s delightfully awful and you enjoy riling him up.

 

You are padding quietly down the hall, a few steps behind the Nation’s spymaster, one Sollux Captor. You know he hears you, because you aren’t trying to make yourself scarce, you’re just waiting for him to turn around and acknowledge you.

 

You taste the small tendrils of red and blue energy drift from the sides of his thin pointy head and react as a double-bolt of energy zaps exactly where you were standing. You laugh. He glares.

 

“What do you want?” he asks, and you are just loving the blunt directness of these Nation folk. “Thtop following me.”

 

“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced, Mr. Appleberry,” you say with your usual charm and zest. And air-tasting. “Terezi Pyrope, master of information for the Empire.”

 

“I know who you are,” he grumps, and ignores your proffered hand. “Why are you following me?”

 

“I think we have information that is useful to each other,” you say, “and I want help.”

 

“You want help,” he says flatly. “Here’th thome advithe, why don’t you take a running leap off the cliff?”

 

“I already tried that, it was boring,” you say. “Can we find someplace private to talk?”

 

He smells like he’s about to refuse, but then sort of…crumples, nods, and leads you to an empty side room. You frown. You don’t like the smell of that crumple at all. It doesn’t suit his tall frame.

 

“Alright,” he grumps, “Thpill. What’th your angle here, Pyrope?”

 

“Survival,” you say, and he cocks his head. “I’ll be brief as I can. I don’t think a peaceful resolution can be made with the rebels.”

 

He frowns.

 

“Not as divided as we are, anyway,” you continue. “I would consider it a mission more imperative than any I’ve ever issued or undertaken to get the clades to get along.”

 

He scowls.

 

“Now, before you run your charmingly overcrowded mouth at me, Mr. Appleberry, I understand what it looks like. I can assure you that this isn’t an attempt at undermining the Nation or at putting any of your crew in a position of weakness. And to prove this,” you forestall his yammering yet again, “I open up the floor. Ask me any question and you will receive a truthful answer. About anything.”

 

His eyes widen a fraction behind his glasses, and he glances at the door before zapping up a chair and sitting in it backwards.

 

“Any quethtion, huh,” he says, more a mutter than a clarification. “What game are you playing here?”

 

“A very old and rickety one,” you say, sitting down yourself. “I’m ever so tired of it.”

 

His brow furrows and he tastes all over of confusion. You daintily cross your ankles and wait.

 

“What’th the thtatuth of the armieth of the Empire at thith point in time?” he asks, and you have to take a quick and calming breath to drown out the brine-tinged ring of _treason_ in your pan. It’s not treason, and if it was, it’s not like it matters with the alliance in place now.

 

“We have a fleet of approximately one hundred thousand ships, all stationed on the Fringe and maintaining borders,” you say, digging the numbers up from your pan and wincing a little, even so. Once the numbers of the fleet were innumerable as stars, or so Condy told you. How far your species has fallen. “We haven’t lost a ship in a couple of perigees but we have been losing soldiers at an increased rate as the natives form unions and spread the idea of rebellion.”

 

Sollux gnaws on his lip. You want to tell him to quit it, because you can smell the honey-mustard of his blood beading up on his skin from here, but hold your silence.

 

“That’th…worthe and altho better,” he mutters. “All at leatht a few dayth away, then, I athume?”

 

“At least,” you confirm. “Though really, you shouldn’t be frightened of us coming to snatch your freedoms. We have more pressing matters than digging up an old and outdated system of oppression, don’t you think?”

 

His mouth twitches a little. You think he might’ve been holding back a smile. You didn’t realize you were being funny.

 

“What are you getting from thith, Pyrope?” Sollux asks. “You’re teal, low down on the foodchain in the Empire. What, do you think if you gain our trutht you’ll have it better off?”

 

You show him all of your teeth in a big smile to avoid grinding them to powder.

 

“You would get along very well with someone else I know who thinks my position on the hemospectrum still has any meaning,” you say, trying to loosen up your voice. “I take that back, you would hate each other immensely because you are both stupid. If I wanted to take over or oppress anyone, Spymaster Captor, I would have done it by now. At the risk of tooting my own unmirthful horn, I am moderately clever.”

 

He’s sparking, just a little.

 

“We’re getting off-track,” you say. “If I may direct this locomotion wreck back onto its proper course, I think between the two of us, we can protect all of trollkind in a way that won’t exacerbate the rebellions into outright war or irritate the Nation and the Empire into finishing each other off. For that to happen, we need to be honest with each other and share all the information we have. I’m not saying we should snuggle and watch awful romcoms together while we pap each other’s faces, but some cooperation will ensure our mutual survival.”

 

You hope the heat in your face is not you blushing at the word “pap”. You haven’t entertained pale feelings since…well…for a very long time. You hope you’re not about to start now with Mr. Twigs-n-Sparks. You can taste the measured look he’s giving you.

 

“Alright, Thpymathter Pyrope,” he says. “I don’t trutht you. But I want my clade to thurvive, tho for them—not for you—I will think about your propothal.”

 

“Excellent,” you say briskly, knowing that’s the best result you could have hoped for at the moment “I look forward to talking again, Mr. Appleberry. And maybe working with you, if you come to agree that we need to make sure Karkat and Feferi’s joint leadership will see a beautiful era of our species ushered in.” Eridan always said you loved the sound of your own voice, and maybe he’s a little right; you certainly don’t see the harm in laying it on thick.

 

(And like he’s one to talk, he once filibustered a clade meeting with the dignitaries for over four hours to give you enough time to dig up the proper documentation to strike down their idiotic proposed bill for reinstating the Helmsman program.)

 

You stand and go to leave.

 

“Hang on.”

 

You pause and turn. Sollux walks until you’re snout-to-seedflap on account of you being shorter than he is.

 

“If you do anything,” he says, in that measured, even tone, “to hurt my friendth, I will bake you from the inthide out and I won’t lothe a wink of thleep for it.”

 

“And I think it’s sufficient for me to say that if you hurt or betray one of my friends, I will have a lot of fun thinking up a good enough punishment as I string you up for a while,” you return, and smile, a real smile, not your “piranha look”, as your dear matesprit so kindly put it (why do you put up with him). “I don’t think that will be a problem for either one of us, though, will it?”

 

He glares down at you. You continue to smile and nod your head a little.

 

“Good night, Mr. Appleberry.”

 

You leave the room and whistle your way to the mess hall. Things will be _changing_ soon. You can feel it.

 

==>Aradia: Get Offended

 

Your name is Aradia Megido and with these guys, that’s not all that hard.

 

You’ve always known that something like this was going to happen. After all, it’s not just warmblooded ghosts who haunt Alternia. Your favorite when you were small was actually a seadweller who told awful jokes and thought you were a nuisance (and you were, to be fair). But you are not small, they are not ghosts, and the future you were once told about the Nation and the Empire colliding again is coming true. Your job is to make that collision as smooth as possible.

 

Not that anyone is making it any easier on you.

 

Your motion to stop talking about the Fringe rebellions for now passed almost unanimously (does Gamzee Makara just vote no on things to be contrary?), but now you are in a discussion about giving up Nation ground to house Empire citizens. You aren’t full-planet, after all, and a lot of Empire citizens are seadwellers, for gog’s sake. There’s plenty of room without giving up land that your people have cultivated for generations now, just because it’s “easier” for these pretentious bluebloods to handle No! This is unfair and you are not going to stand aside and let them waltz in and take whatever they want!

 

“Look, it’s simple,” Karkat says. “This land is our land. That land can be your land. It’s not like you have any shortage of robots and tech that can terraform it for you if it’s still unlivable by your stupidly high standards. There’s no need to displace thousands of Nation trolls just because you don’t want to get your delicate nubs dirty!”

 

“Vantas, look at it this way,” Eridan argues. “The land you’re suggestin’ we build on is mostly desert. We couldn’t terraform that unless we brought in hundreds a thousands a gallons a fresh water to irrigate through. We ain’t sayin’ you should all get up an move, that’d be unreasonable, we’re just sayin’ that it would be in our best interests if we co-existed.”

 

“And after coexisting, how long before you start overtaking?” Karkat demands. “Listen, fishbreath, your sentiments are well and truly heard. I get it. It isn’t easy territory. That’s why we haven’t expanded out that far ourselves, it’s all sand and revenants in there. But I’m not going to allow the Empire to get their foot in our door without at least making sure we get a foot in yours.”

 

“If this is about the ships _again_ —”

 

“How else were you expecting us to get into Empire space to help with whatever stupid war you’re about to start? By flapping our fronds and thinking happy thoughts like a stupid fairy? Shut up, Tavros,” Karkat snips bad-temperedly. “You have space stations. You have occupied planets. You have your own Mother Grub, for crying out loud, what do you need Alternia for?”

 

“Re-circulation of the gene pool,” Terezi says. You don’t know how you feel about her. It’s like she’s trying to play both sides of the game. “Our Mother Grub is practically rigid and all the Virgin Grubs are too young to accept slurry yet. Your Mother Grub is still fertile. And if it’s not too bold of me to say, I quite like the cool end of the spectrum as much as the warm end and would very much enjoy having both in my nasal palate.” She laughs a little bit like a chainsaw and you just have to shake your head. She’s blind and sees through smell and taste, which is really odd, but not as odd as her apparent obsession with the tastes colors have. Red is her favorite, as she’s told you a billion times. While furtively sniffing your clothes. You don’t dislike Terezi, but she does creep you out.

 

And this coming from the Nation’s number-one creep, that’s saying something.

 

This does stir up some attention, though—you and Nepeta and Sollux aren’t surprised, but the other three members of your clade are taken aback by the revelation Terezi’s just given them.

 

“Your Mother Grub is dying?” Kanaya says, voice a curious mixture of pity and business. “Why were we not informed of this?”

 

“Because it’s none a your business,” Eridan snaps, with a dark look at Terezi. She doesn’t smile at him back, which you’ve observed is unusual for her. Instead she gives him a stone-straight face. Odd.

 

“What part of ‘alliance’ keeps slipping your pans?” Terezi says, voice pleasant as anything.

 

“It’s a partnership, not a quadrantlockin’,” Eridan argues, and ooh, that’s some _very_ strange tension between them.

 

“Excuse you, it totally was,” Karkat butts in. “Hello, remember the ceremony that kicked this whole clusterbumble of a conference off? The one you all got roaring drunk after?”

 

“I believe Eridan’s initial point still holds merit,” Equius speaks up, and his voice is hoarse and low but distinct. “Our two conglomerates are not bound to share every detail and resource with one another.”

 

“I’d say a dying Mother Grub and the repossessing of our living space as something that we need to know and talk about,” Karkat growls. “Listen, that bites about your Mother Grub, but if you needed our help, being up-front about it would have been the best way to go about making sure you get it. And I’m not going to let you take Nation soil when there’s plenty of perfectly good Alternian earth elsewhere.”

 

“I think the point we are trying to make is that we both need to get better about working together and being pawnest—sorry, honest,” Nepeta says, and she’s speaking directly to Equius, whose sweat glands seem to be on hyperdrive all the time and is currently sweating buckets, to use a lewd term. He is also very keenly fixated on what Nepeta has to say. “We can help you clear and irrigate the uninhabited parts of Alternia if you want to settle down here, and if you want to use our Mother Grub for your slurry, I’m sure we can work something out. But don’t just try and take it from us. That’s rude.”

 

“Only about as rude as you people insistin’ on takin’ our tech to use for—” Eridan chimes in loudly, and you are about to silence him when Nepeta’s head whips around and she _glares_.

 

“I was talking to Equius,” she says coldly, and you feel a collective shiver run down the table, “not you.”

 

She settles back into her chair and smiles kindly at Equius. Eridan crosses his arms and mutters under his breath. Vriska flicks him.

 

“Go on, Equius,” Nepeta says.

 

“I was not suggesting a takeover,” Equius replies, hesitantly and with obvious caution. “I was merely suggesting that although we are allies, we do not have to rub shoulders—so to speak.”

 

“Sorry, Equius, but I think that’s _exactly_ what that means,” Nepeta says, and she is shot a lot of weird looks from all over the room, including from you. Excuse her? Who says you _want_ to rub shoulders with these pretentious jerks? Several of you open your mouths to protest the point.

 

“Calm down, Equius,” Feferi says soothingly from the end of the table. You glance at her. She’s been surprisingly quiet throughout most of the negotiations, only chipping in when the arguing gets too loud. “Everybody, just…take it down notch, okay? Can we do that?”

 

Mouths close, and chairs are pushed back up to the table. You are silent.

 

“There,” Feferi smiles, “that’s better.” She turns to Karkat. “Karkat, would Nepeta’s compromise of getting the Nation’s help in terraforming the Alternian wilderness be acceptable?”

 

Well…he _does_ have the last word. He looks at her for a long, careful moment, and nods.

 

“We can help. But don’t expect us to do all the work or bend over backwards.”

 

“Then it’s good enough for us, too,” Feferi says, her voice slightly raised over Eridan’s protest. “And about the Mother Grub…”

 

“Kanaya,” Karkat grunts, and Kanaya turns her attention towards Feferi.

 

“I do not think the Mother Grub we have here can sustain the growth of both of our populations,” she says, in that quiet and musical voice of hers that seems made for calm. You envy that about her. “However, that is not to say that when one of the Virgin Grubs of the Empire come to maturity that she will not be able to take on the task. How long will it be until one reaches that point?”

 

There is shifting on the Empire side of the table. You glance at them.

 

“They haven’t hatched yet,” Feferi says. “We think that the planet they’re incubating on just isn’t the right temperature or climate.”

 

“How many eggs?” Kanaya asks.

 

“A clutch of three,” Feferi replies. “It used to be six, but there were…problems.”

 

“Rebels,” Eridan snarls. Kanaya seems to pale a little, and closes her eyes for a long moment.

 

“How soon can the eggs be transferred to the Brooding Caverns?” she asks. You want to call her off and tell her to stop, but there’s something in the air right now, something that feels like a ripple in a pond or the first snowflake before enough accumulate for an acid burn.

 

“For safest transport, no more than a week,” Feferi says. “If we do this, though, do we have your guarantee in writing that we get equal donation rights?”

 

“So long as we also get in writing that the Empire will not encroach on Nation lands, but cultivate livable spaces for itself in the lands we offer, then yes, you have our word,” Kanaya says, and glances at Karkat, as do the rest of you. He snorts a breath out through his nose and nods.

 

“Elder What’s-Your-Face, can I get a pen and some of that pretentious official paper you like using for this stuff?”

 

An unofficial recess is called while Karkat, Feferi, Eridan, and Nepeta are hauled down to one end of the table to quibble over the wording of the new agreement. You take the opportunity to get some caffeine sludge, yours has gone sort of cold and solid in the bottom of your mug. Ick.

 

You sense more than hear a troll following you, and resolve yourself to wait and see what they do before you react. You feel something almost cool against your skin, or under it, and really mostly just in your head but there’s almost a physical feeling that is driving you nuts. You swallow.

 

“I wasn’t aware that you were being let off your leash, Makara,” you say in a casual voice, dumping the old sludge into a waste receptacle and rinsing it out in the trap of the break block. There is slight pressure on your psyche like a clawed finger being trailed down your brain. You shiver and hope he didn’t see that. “Do you greet everyone like this, or am I just special?”

 

Gamzee laughs, low and rumbly and awful (maybe a little sexy, but it’s not like you’re interested or anything). The quiet slap of his bare feet against the tile seems to echo as whatever his brain is doing to your brain intensifies the sound. Also colors.

 

“Oh, sister, sister, if you was any shade of special I woulda taken care to split your pan into fractions long before now,” he says as you fill up your mug. You are planning on drinking this, you tell yourself, not on throwing it in this guy’s face. Yeah. “As it is, this is just a friendly chat as I’m all up and bein’ friendly-like.”

 

You shift aside and stir in creamer, watching him from the corner of your eye. His clothes (if that’s what you can call them; short open robes and baggy pants with a copious amount of tacky bling aren’t exactly what you’d call proper coverage) whisper over his spidery limbs as he opens the thermal hull and examines the contents. The little mutters in your brain get stronger.

 

“That’s terribly distracting,” you say after a few minutes of silence. “Can you stop?”

 

“What would make you think I’d have my inclination on to do that?” he asks, and you hate how you can hear the grin in his voice as he pulls out an old wrapped-up sandwich and sniffs it. Gross. “’sides, sis, little bit of _madness_ now and then does a body good.”

 

You hear as well as feel the little snap in his vocals, and you sigh. You didn’t want to do this (except you really did), but…

 

You grab that little tendril of psychic power and drag it into the depths of your pan.

 

Physically you can see Gamzee freeze mid-chew and stare at you, wide-eyed, but psychically you are reveling in the strong aura of fear and alarm coming off of his brain. Oh, stupid boy, if he wanted your attention he only had to _SAY SO._

Your pan is where the ghosts live, it’s the sleeping-place of the dead and the temple of the forgotten, nothing his puny brain could dream up could ever EVER live up to the RIOT AND THE FURY, the BLOOD AND THE SHOCK, the absolute silence of what you’ve seen and what you’ve heard, your eyes are clocks and his head is a _playground_.

 

“Gamzee,” you purr, and it registers that he’s on his knees with his fists in his hair and you are looking down at him, “Gamzee, keep your weak-panned slime to yourself and _shut up_.”

 

You let him go. He recoils back into his own head like the pull-string back into a talking doll, with a snap you can almost hear. You smile and curtsy a little and pick up your mug (still hot).

 

He looks at you like you’re an idol on an altar he wants to tear down and you cherish the little smug feeling in your guts and manifest it in an extra sway of your hips, just for him.

 

He could be a fun new plaything, you think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got some more bits down. Still negligible on the plot, but there's something coming on the horizon, so don't lose hope yet, my lovelies. :) Enjoy Karkat and Feferi trying to come to an understanding for now!

==>Feferi: Offend

 

Well…looks like you’ve done it, unfortunately.

 

You aren’t quite sure what you said, but you were trying to make the point that since warmbloods have shorter life spans it would make sense to put some measures in order to protect them against longer-lived coolbloods and you…uh…think you might’ve accidentally used your version of the world cull. Which they don’t know. And. Which you are doing a poor job of explaining, going by the way Sollux is taking you to task about how warmbloods aren’t “petth”.

 

Oh, dear.

 

Honestly, though, you don’t see what’s so wrong about your proposal, other than the way you worded it. But Karkat is glaring at you and the other warmbloods are also glaring at you and, well, even Terezi looks disappointed. The rest of your clade looks bored.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you protest, “I just  meant that in order to foster more goodwill between our people, something like a redefinition of what the castes owe each other is—”

 

Karkat stands up and storms out without a word. You blink. Then you look at the rest of the trolls in the room, who have gone eerily silent.

 

“I think we can call it a day,” the Nation Elder on the far end of the table says mildly. The dignitary closer to your end snorts.

 

You dip a little curtsy to the room and rush after your matesprit. Who is probably getting a bad crick in his neck from sleeping on the floor day after day. You keep meaning to bring that up, but…other things distract you. Like the fact that with each passing day he seems to be getting more and more tense and won’t even look at you when you both retire to your shared block (which is still a thing, not that Karkat and even you haven’t tried to get moved into separate blocks).

 

“Karkat!” you call after his retreating back, and he stops dead in the hallway until you catch up. He looks at you with the most furious expression you’ve ever seen on his face, dull rust high in his cheeks. If it weren’t for the eyes looking dead into yours, you would never have known he was off-spectrum.

 

“Block,” he says tersely, and you obey and follow him into your shared block, which is a couple hallways away but secluded. The balcony doors have been thrown open and a warm night breeze wafts in, though there is a tinge of color on the horizon indicating the sun’s approach. The balcony overlooks a breathtaking view of the ocean and beach, though. You are almost distracted by it before you remember why you’re here and recalibrate to face Karkat.

 

“You don’t even know,” he says, with squared shoulders and hands on his hips, “you don’t even _know_ what it is you said wrong, do you?”

 

You blink at him.

 

“I…no, not really.”

 

He clenches his jaw and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s nursing a headache (he might be, the floor really is not that comfortable, you should offer to switch today instead). He takes several deep breaths.

 

“Okay, just…sit down, alright? I need to shove some schoolfeeding down your ignorance chute before you end up starting another war.”

 

You drag one of the chairs on the balcony closer inside, still in reach of that breeze, and obediently sit.

 

“Alright, your Highness, get comfy, because this is going to be really uncomfortable for both of us,” he says. “First things first: your redefinition of culling is not a terrible idea.”

 

You blink.

 

“Your insistence on repurposing the word is stupid and your methodology is frankly terrifying, but the basics of the idea are not bad,” Karkat says. His voice isn’t gentle (you wonder what it would take to get it that way), but it’s not hard and angry, either. Mostly. Maybe a little angry. But you think that’s normal. “Setting up a system that cares for the infirm and the disabled is something I’ve been trying to figure out for half my natural life. Your way is the closest to something resembling functional I’ve seen yet, but it has some gaping holes that will do more to hurt our peoples’ relationships than help them.”

 

“Like what?” you ask, running over the plan in your mind again. You thought it sounded nice.

 

“Like the idea that warmbloods are short-lived little wimps who can’t take care of themselves on principle and need to be looked after by ‘capable highbloods’ without their consent,” Karkat says. “You didn’t have to say it in those exact words because that’s what everybody in that room hears. So we don’t live to be three billion sweeps old, who cares? We can still function and take care of ourselves just fine without your interference!”

 

“I know that,” you say, feeling kind of small inside, “but what about when you get old, Karkat? Who takes care of you when you can’t walk or feed yourself anymore?”

 

“If that ever happens, I will either cull myself—regular definition here—or some panleak I know will probably be at my beck and call until I snuff it,” he replies. “But on _my_ terms. Not on your oh-so-benevolent and smothering law.”

 

You chew your lip. It’s not like you didn’t know warmbloods were people, you just…kinda… _assumed_ this sort of plan would be right up their alley, getting looked after by someone when they needed it. Though you think maybe your definition of “need” and their definition are a lot more different than you thought. You were expecting more opposition from the coolbloods, not from both sides.

 

You look up and Karkat seems to be surveying you with a measure of platonic pity (you think).

 

“You really have no idea how to be in charge of people who are different than you, do you?”

 

“Of course I do,” you say, a little stung, “unless you think I’m casteist and stubborn and don’t like to not get my way.”

 

Karkat blinks.

 

“In a lot of ways, Princess, that’s exactly what you are.”

 

You flush.

 

“Hey, no judging on the casteist thing, though,” he shrugs. “It’s just the way you were raised. In a lot of ways, the Nation is every bit as prejudiced as the Empire.”

 

“In some ways?” you laugh. “Karkat, all anyone has done since we’ve gotten here is fight, and it’s always along clade lines—because we don’t trust each other and we have all sorts of ingrained prejudices.” You sober up, partially at what you said, partially at his deep frown. “I don’t know how we’re going to do this if we can’t get along, at the most basic and fundamental troll-to-troll level.”

 

You sit in silence for a while, contemplating.

 

“I have an idea,” Karkat says, haltingly, “and it’s—it’s the dumbest idea in the universe, honestly, straight out of every stupid wiggler schoolblock drama.”

 

You sit up. “Well, at this point, I’m open to any suggestions. Let’s hear it.”

 

He tells you. You listen. And then you grin.

 

“Karcrab, that’s so insane it just might work!”

 

If he notices your little pun slip, he doesn’t comment, though the tips of his ears are a little red.

 

“Then let’s put it into action.”

 

==>Karkat: Schoolhive Jive This

 

That’s idiotic, Schoolhive Jive was a dumb series of “educational” videos you and the others were forced to watch during your schoolfeeding when the teacher was off fighting zombies or something. You are just going to take some well-worn tropes from the genre and see if they work on your collective crew of idiots.

 

You thought, since the compromise with the Mother Grub and the irrigation planning, that the clades would have learned how to at least partially get along by now, but _nooooo_ , it’s just more idiocy and more trying to one-up each other and you hate trolls, officially. You are swearing off trolls. Trolls are gross and can fondle each other’s shame globes as the universe implodes for all you care.

 

(Oh, nookmunch, if only that were a _little_ bit true, a voice sighs in your pan, and you shush it thoroughly.)

 

Your and Feferi’s plan is simple and will most likely not work. But here it is.

 

It’s lunchtime and in the mess hall you usually sit together by crew. Not unusual, most trolls do this, but the bitter looks being shot back and forth are irritating, so you and Feferi hang back at the end of the line until everyone else is seated, and then you sit with the coldbloods and she sits with the warmbloods.

 

This feels nine kinds of wrong and you have to very steadily ignore the lurching in your gut that is telling you to _back off, back off now_ , but this is for everybody’s own good and you shove a forkful of grubs into your mouth and chew silently. You glare at Gamzee as he blinks at you, you elbow Eridan’s arm over a little, and you swallow and say, “So. What’s up with you guys?”

 

You glance at Feferi, who is chatting animatedly to a stone-faced group of ingrates, and after a few seconds the other ten nookwhiffs in the room pick up their trays and swap seats, with minimum jostling and running into each other. You would be proud if they weren’t undermining the plan.

 

“Hey, KK,” Sollux says like the room did not just undergo a massive game of musical stools. “What’th on the agenda for the retht of tonight?”

 

You ignore him and glance at Feferi again, who is looking at you with a sort of apologetic smile. You set your jaw, pick up your tray, and jerk your chin for her to follow.

 

She does, to your (miniscule) pleasure, and together you push two of the tables together and sit next to each other. Her elbow brushes yours and you hear her quiet giggle.

 

“Look at their faces,” she whispers, and you glance up in-between chewing. “They look like someone yanked the bait from their mouths!”

 

They do look a lot like gape-mouthed fish of some kind. You grin at your crew, showing off your mouthful of partially-chewed food, and swallow.

 

“Plenty of room over here if you want to know what the rest of the night is going to look like,” you say loudly. “Gosh, look at all the stuff we have to do. How convenient would it be if a certain set of trolls were present to hear their briefing. Wow.”

 

And you wait, carrying on eating, keeping an eye on both the clades and on Feferi, whose expression is cheery as ever but whose earfins are drooping. You frown. That bothers you more than you thought it would.

 

“Look, if you want to go sit with your crew I understand,” you whisper out of the corner of your mouth to her. “This was a dumb idea anyway, it’s not like any of them will actually—”

 

You are cut off by the plonking down of a tray, and look up to see Terezi Pyrope setting her food down and grinning.

 

“Good evening, Sir Scion,” she inclines her head at you. “Are you going to eat your mashed tuberpaste? Because I am partial to it if you are not.”

 

“Of course I’m going to eat it, I wouldn’t have gotten it if I wasn’t going to,” you say irritably.

 

Kanaya sets her tray down next to you, so quietly you didn’t know she was there until her hand brushes your shoulder, and smiles at Terezi.

 

“You can have mine if you like, I dislike this particular brand.”

 

You blink and watch Terezi and Kanaya and Feferi chat, and as you blink in perplexed wonder Tavros, Eridan, Vriska, and Aradia join you. They still sit divided, but at least they’re sitting together and actually chatting, which is more than you’d hoped for. At the single tables Equius and Gamzee continue eating, though Gamzee keeps shooting furtive looks your way, and Nepeta and Sollux are staying put, as well, though Nepeta is half-swung around and looks like she’s arguing with him.

 

It’s not much, you think, but it’s a start.

 

==>

 

You are making up your little pallet on the floor when Feferi clears her throat a little.

 

“Karkat?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“We can switch today, if you want.”

 

You blink. “Huh?”

 

“I can sleep on the floor if you want the bed,” she says, running some kind of bone comb through her hair and not looking at you. “It’s just…I know the floor isn’t comfortable and it probably hurts to sleep on every night. So. I thought I could take a turn for a night.”

 

You drop the blanket you were smoothing out and straighten up. For some reason you wish you usually slept with a shirt on. You should amend that instantly.

 

“That’s nice of you, but I don’t want to know what your clade would do to me if they found out I made the Princess sleep on the floor,” you say frankly. “Besides, I’m fine. I like the floor.” This is a lie. You dream about sleeping in a bed again often. But yeah _right_ are you going to actually share a bed with Feferi, that’s just…weird.

 

( _You totally can, you know_ , that irritating little voice whispers, _matesprit’s rights_.)

 

(Shut up. It was a ceremony of political convenience, not pity. Besides, you still barely know her and it’d be weird.)

 

“Karkat,” she says, with the barest tinge of imperiousness, “sleep on the bed. I will take the floor.”

 

You cross your arms tighter and survey the mattress. It’s big. Technically you could both sleep on it and never know the other was there. It’s not that crazy an idea. She didn’t try to kill you when you corrected her awful culling plans and she helped you with your plan tonight to get the clades to behave, so it’s not like she’s completely terrible, either. This doesn’t have to be weird. You suck in a breath.

 

“We can just both use the bed, no reason for one of us to be sore and grumpy in the evening,” you say, in a bit of a rush, hoping she can’t see your blush. You are the biggest idiot. It is you. She gets a little tyrian in the cheeks and blinks.

 

“Okay,” she says, and you stare at each other for a minute. You nod.

 

“Okay.”

 

You drag the blanket back up on the mattress, punch the pillows you’re going to be sleeping on in a bit, and settle into the bed as close to the edge as you can get. Feferi watches you, then picks up her comb again. You notice, as your body settles and you start listening, that she’s singing. It’s not Alternian, but some kind of bubbling, almost guttural language that churns your guts a little.

 

You want to ask her about it, ask about the comb, ask about a lot of things, but theoretical experience (via movies, yes, you are every bit as lame as Sollux thinks you are) has taught you that if you ask her questions, she’s going to ask _you_ questions and you aren’t prepared for that.

 

So you shut your eyes and pretend that you do not keep thinking about what a pretty voice she has.

 

Nope.

 

Not you.

 

Only sleeping now.

 

(You don’t know this yet and won’t for probably a few perigees but she cuddles up close to your warmth that night and you have dreams about inky darkness lit with fuchsia lights and the bubbling call of something vast and terrible you dare not name that embraces you tenderly, like a lusus, like a lover—)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I'm right proud of this chapter. Mostly the first half. Especially the first half.
> 
> Don't know when I'll get the chance to work on this again (at least not for a couple weeks), so enjoy this tidbit and please be patient with me!

==>)(IC: Brood

 

You’re the motherglubbin’ Condesce and shore thang, you’ll brood.

 

Not much else you can do these days.

 

Your body has failed you, which hasn’t happened since your final adult molt, back when you were transitioning from an awful twiggy awkward thing into the bad-bass you are now. Only there isn’t the promise of glory and a bangin’ bod at the end of this transformation. You’re rotting away.

 

Ain’t no one allowed to wait on you these days but your descendent, who should be doing her duty and securing her Empire down planetside right now, and your moirail. Failrail, you snigger, and then stop when your gills stick and you can’t breathe right for a few seconds. He’s here now, looming huge and ancient as ever, and looking down on you with a placid expression that denotes neither affection nor contempt. He just Is. Way it’s always been with you two.

 

“What’s the joke, blackest diamond mine,” he rumbles, and you roll your eyes. Just because you pailed each other now and again in the past don’t mean you got anything more going on now. But you guess, old fogey as he is—as you are—the past is about all you got now. You know it was never really you he was true pale for. You let it be.

 

“Your face,” you tell him, and he snorts.

 

“Ain’t it, though.”

 

You sit in silence and you feel your body struggling to continue on. You once thought you were gonna live forever, but that’s what happens when you get cocky. You get dead. How many times did Ma have to glub that at you before you understood it?

 

You’re old but you guess you never did learn that lesson right.

 

You start trying to struggle upright. You can go without being plugged up for a little while, but it hurts like shell. If Kurloz were any sort of moirail he’d be restraining you, but he just watches, mild as anything, and when you’re finally on your feet he offers his arm for you to lean on. He knows where you wanna go.

 

You take secret paths through the ship, mostly because it don’t take as long to get down there where you’re going and you don’t wanna be seen by your subjects. Everybody knows you’re dying, but it’s the principle of the thing.

 

When you get to the door of the helmsblock you shake him off and enter. It’s got a goodly amount of seawater in here so your gills should be alright to be off the ventilator a little longer, though it’s stale and kinda metallic. Your object is suspended from the mass of biowires, breathing evenly. Sleeping.

 

You steady yourself on the helmscolumnn and then slap him across his face.

 

He jolts awake with a snarl and a spark, just how you like, before the protocols punish him for it. He hisses, then blinks his two-toned eyes at you.

 

“Empreth.”

 

“Helmsman.”

 

You stare at each other. For a long time, that’s all you ever did need to do. You been with this one a long time. Not as long as Kurloz but your Helmsman is dearer and you’ll admit it freely. You don’t need to talk much to know the familiar exchange of emotions. He hates you black like space, and you ain’t always certain because you never are in your quadrants (you never did need to be), but you think you’re probably some kinda murky red for him. Never can love anyone without a good dose of hate, you think, and wonder if that’s just Empress territory or a personal Meenah failing.

 

(You wondered sometimes, more since you got sick, if all that hate you let bleed into what should be the softer quadrants is just your own self-loathing for things you ain’t sorry for and are never likely to be.)

 

“You’re dying,” he says.

 

“Yep,” you reply.

 

“You’ve been dying for a while.”

 

“So have you, Tuna.”

 

He grimaces. He hates it when you use his name, because in his mind, he’s hardware. You’re the Captain. You shouldn’t address him so familiar when he ain’t himself anymore. Well he can suck your bulge, because you’ll call him what you want. He’s yours, after all.

 

“Have you come to kill me?”

 

“What for?” you shrug. “You’ll die after I die. Ain’t no lowblood supposed to live as long as you have.”

 

Once you threw out fish puns at him just to make him squirm and blink 2TOP NO REALLY 2TOP THII2 II2 EMBARRA22IING FOR EVERYBODY on all the monitors. You’re too tired for fish puns now. You flutter your fins and feel the sting of rot and wince.

 

“I thought you might like the privilege of ending me yourthelf,” he murmurs.

 

“What for?” you repeat, and you lean into his wires and kiss his wasted mouth. He woulda bit you, once. He just surrenders now. You think you hate that more than you love it, because when he fought he was still himself. He hasn’t been himself in sweeps and sweeps. Or maybe you both just gave up fighting the inevitable.

 

You wish, sometimes, that you could unhook his arms and feel his hands through your hair. You have a lot, would probably feel nice when he pulled it.  But it’s been too long since you’ve entertained that fantasy. His body is showing age, no more than you are, but his chest is not quite so broad and his shoulders no longer strong. You kiss him and you run your own clawtips over his scalp, but there’s no passion. You’re communicating. He tastes like sparks and stars, always did, but the stars are old and the sparks are embers.

 

“I’ve been ready to die for a long time,” he whispers in the quiet space between your mouths, when you have to pull back because your breathing is erratic again. “Are you?”

 

“I’m scared,” you whisper back, because he knows secrets about you no one else does and this is no different. “I’m not ready to go yet.”

 

“Tough beanth,” he says, and you snort through an awful clogged giggle. You need to get back on your breathing machines. “Thith ith it, ithn’t it?”

 

You kiss him again, harder, until he’s the one panting for breath and you’re just struggling.

 

“See you on the other side, Tuna.”

 

“Thave me a thpot in hell.”

 

You slide off the helmscolumn and half-swim, half-drag yourself out of the block. When you make it to the door Kurloz hauls you up and carries you like a wiggler back to your block. He hooks you up with practiced and dainty motions and tucks you in all tender.

 

You’re dying.

 

You can’t believe you’re actually dying.

 

“Kurloz,” you say, and he sits back down beside your bed, “this treaty isn’t going to work.”

 

“No,” he agrees, “but way I see it, you and me won’t be around long enough to see the trouble their young stupid hands are gonna wreak, so why bother your pan about it?”

 

He has a point. You frown.

 

“I worked hard for this empire,” you murmur.

 

“It got split right down the middle,” he replies. You weakly slap at his arm. What business does he have of being muscular still when he’s got a foot in his grave, how’s that even right. “Way I see it, that glubbin’ heiress of yours and scion of theirs got the best shot of uniting the troll race back into one. Way it ought to be.”

 

“You sound like the shoutbag,” you complain, and he shifts, just a little, but enough to get your attention. “You’re still mad about that.”

 

“He was a threat. You took care of it. Ain’t nothin’ to get my harsh on about,” he says, still so mildly. You really wish you could stick him a few times.

 

“You are, though.”

 

“Long in the past, Meenah. Ain’t got it in me to be mad about that anymore.”

 

“You’re full of carp.”

 

He merely shrugs. You roll your eyes.

 

“It’ll come down to war, eventually. War with the Nation, war with the rebels, all the same. We ain’t gonna last if I’m not in charge.”

 

“Maybe not,” Kurloz assents, “but I’m in a mind to watch it happen.”

 

You look at him for a long time. “What happened to you, old man? You’re passive tonight.”

 

He shrugs again.

 

“You’re not getting sick too, are you?”

 

“Mayhaps I’ve been sick in my soul for a long time,” he says, pensive, quiet. Not even a snap of chucklevoodoo. “Mayhaps I found myself in a mood to reminisce, seeing as you’re laid out and fit for the horrorterrors to take back into their own wicked selves.”

 

“You’re thinking about him again,” you groan. “You’re insufferable when you think about him.”

 

He just grins, and you realize your mistake and hit him again. “Shut up.”

 

“Suffer he did, so Sufferer they call him,” he says. “All at your hand, my lady. All at your pretty little beck.”

 

You think to yourself that Kurloz would make a dangerous enemy, if it wasn’t his own loyalty to you that’d caused him to turn over the one troll he ever did feel pity for. Too old for vengeance, you think, too old, too old. He hates himself for that more than he hates you. What a pair. You woulda made the best palemates if you’d ever talked this stuff out.

 

“I was thinking to myself, sweeps ago, that I was of a mind,” he says, “to cause trouble before I go.”

 

“You still got sweeps left, you old coot, don’t patronize me,” you reply irritably. “What are you yammering on about? You ain’t caused trouble since your snout started drooping.”

 

“I never did admit what trouble that was,” he says, and you look at him because his voice is dark. You squint at him. He smiles. You sigh through your nose. Of course.

 

You think and decide it doesn’t matter. You shift and take in another guttural breath. You got a few perigees, if you’re lucky.

 

“Never woulda thought you’d betray me,” you say.

 

“Quid pro quo,” he says, and kisses your forehead. It’s tender but you feel the press of his fangs nonetheless. “Sleep well, Empress.”

 

“Like the dead,” you say, and he throws back his head and laughs as he exits. You don’t realize it, but you’re wheezing your giggle along with him.

 

==>Equius: Be Uncomfortable

 

Your name is Equius Zahhak and, at the risk of repeating a tasteless joke Vriska made out of your six-sweep-old self’s habits…you need a towel.

 

But this is not because your prepubescent body has betrayed you; it is quite the opposite. Your adult body has functioned perfectly. You have successfully completed your workout routine. The training ‘bots are in shambles and you will spend tomorrow rebuilding them. Your perspiration is the clean sweat of physical exertion and not the product of your body rebelling and revealing your less-than-savory thoughts. Though. That does still happen. Occasionally.

 

You notice that the little olive-blood has been watching you the entire time as you pat down your skin. Your stomach turns a little. She’s been around quite frequently, watching you and making small talk. You should rebuff her and move on. But.

 

“Nepeta,” you greet her calmly, and deny that you feel warm inside when she grins. “Can I help you with something?”

 

“I was wondering if you wanted to spar,” she says, and you blink. She is tiny and lithe, very much like the purrbeast she emulates (you’ve heard her drop her cat puns during meetings before; the Scion rolls his eyes but you find it strangely endearing) (so far as one of your caste can find someone of her caste endearing, that is). But you would crush her before she could get in close enough to pose much of a threat. Your control is admirable, but even you can get carried away in the heat of the moment.

 

“No,” you say, and continue wiping the sweat from your body. “Don’t be ludicrous.”

 

Something plips off your forehead.

 

You frown, and look at the offending object. Some kind of fruit pip. You open your mouth to reprimand her, but Nepeta flicks another pip at you and you close your mouth, resolving to glare her into submission, your naked eyes deep blue and imposing.

 

She laughs and throws an entire handful of pips at your head. You wonder how long she’s been saving those.

 

“Are you quite finished?” you ask.

 

“Are you gonna fight me?” she replies, and slinks a few steps forward.

 

“No,” you say.

 

She places a pip in her mouth and spits it out at you. It sticks to your still-damp skin. You grimace.

 

“That is disgusting.”

 

“So’s your face,” she replies. You frown. Is she…is she black-flirting with you? “Come on, loosen up. Fight me!”

 

“I’m not going to fight you.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because nothing would be gained from it,” you say, rather than the words that almost left your mouth (which is a good thing, because your intended sentence was rather embarrassing). “I am sure that your skills are adequate, but they would be no match for my _strength_.”

 

“I think you’re a dumb horse butt and need to get the stick out of your bottom,” she says back, with a definite playful giggle. You are confused. What is it this lowblood wants of you?

 

“No.”

 

She sighs dramatically, then coils her muscles and pounces.

 

In an effort to not hurt her you merely put your hands up to defend against her scratching, but her claws are nowhere near your skin. Her fingertips are instead carding over your face and shoulders as she locks her legs around your torso and…gnaws…on your remaining horn.

 

“Killed ya!” she says through a muffled mouthful of keratin. “Killed ya again!”

 

“Nepeta,” you say sternly, “stop this foolishness at once.”

 

“Not until you fight me!” she says back, and you reach up and peel her hands out of your hair, for starters. You are not using your full strength, but it is a near thing; she is surprisingly resistant. You manage to finally hold her out at arm’s length from you, her feet only a few inches from the ground but her entire demeanor that of a kitten caught doing something naughty.

 

“Listen,” you say, “I do not know for which quadrant you are soliciting, and I do not care. I am not interested in fighting you. We are here to ensure the survival of our race, not to fraternize. Please contain yourself and cease stepping above your station.”

 

The innocent kitten look turns to one more akin to a lioness, and she pokes a spot on your wrist very hard. You drop her and cradle your hand to your chest, wincing.

 

You don’t see what she does next, but you are flat on your back in a few seconds, wheezing a little. Nepeta sits on your chest.

 

“You’re sweaty and rude and you smell kind of funny,” she says. “You are always angry and I don’t like how you talk down to me and my furiends—sorry—friends.”

 

A very strange part of you, the part that has your blood-pusher in your throat, wants to tell her not to apologize for the pun, but another, larger part of you that is possibly your lungs wants to berate her for having made the mistake in the first place. She has a pleasingly open face and hair that is fine, if in want of a good comb. You idly wonder how she would look at an imperial ball. Then you try to squash the thought. But it’s no good, the idea of her in proper dress has suctioned itself onto the interior lining of your skull.

 

“You broke three pens yesterday during the meetings,” she says, and you blink back into the present. “Are you okay?”

 

“You are sitting on my chest after I have had the wind knocked from my lungs,” you say. “Please get off.”

 

She only shifts to your stomach, more or less straddling you, and you wonder that your sweat glands are not reacting. The last time a troll was this…ah…intimate…with you, it did not go well.

 

“No, really,” she asks, “are you okay? Did something happen?”

 

You try to focus on her words. What was wrong with you yesterday? You have to think…someone said something, probably, that’s how you are usually set off. You think it was the Scion in particular that irked you yesterday and caused the demise of three pens, as Nepeta was so kind to count for you.

 

“This conference makes me angry,” you say, not hesitantly, just choosing your words with care, in case the troll sitting on your midsection has a blade concealed somewhere. You know she’s faster than you now. “For reasons I do not care to divulge in present company.”

 

“You don’t like us because you think we’re lower than you,” she says. You blink and swallow. You feel that you are playing a dangerous game, but something about her…it compels honesty. You wonder if she has psychics and then strike it down; it would have been included in her dossier. You are confident that Terezi was thorough when she compiled them. After all, you helped.

 

So you nod.

 

Nepeta frowns.

 

“You’re wrong.”

 

You sit up. She tumbles into your lap. This is awkward, but you have a point to make.

 

“I am the strongest troll I know,” you say, and to demonstrate you gouge out a handful of the floor and show it to her, twisted metal and tile and cement. “I will live for centuries. My mind is a steel trap, my every movement precise, and there are those above me whose mannerisms and talents are greater than this. Below I see only short-lived blips and uncouth upstarts.”

 

Nepeta’s hand twitches, and you think she’s about to slap you, but she clambers out of your lap and instead offers her hand to you.

 

“I wanna show you something,” she says. You ignore the hand up, but follow her as she pads out of the training block.

 

She leads you through several narrow hallways, the existence of which you were not aware of before, and you emerge at the doorway of the eating block, where the majority of the clades are eating dinner. It still seem very much separated, which pleases you, but Nepeta elbows you and you glance at her.

 

“Look at Kanaya, for instance,” she says. “And then look at Eridan. Look at how clean and neat she eats and how much of a slobfest Eridan is.”

 

You think you detect a real hint of darker passion when she glares at Eridan, who seems to be eating just fine, and then turn your attention to Kanaya. Her movements are dainty and precise, it’s true; not a single drop is spilled from her spoon as she eats her gruel. Her every motion is graceful. You blink at suddenly it occurs to you that this jadeblood has every grace and manner you often associate with your Princess—but a glance at the Princess shows her laughing with her mouth full at something Aradia— _Aradia_ —seems to have said, and you look between the two to fully size up the comparison.

 

Kanaya indeed appears to be much more genteel than you initially thought was possible in a lowblood.

 

Nepeta flicks your arm, and you look down at her.

 

“There’s something in our Book of the Iron Infidel that says to treat others how we would want to be treated and to not judge others based on trivial things like blood color,” she says, and her voice is sharp and earnest, olive eyes bright. You are transfixed by her voice, pinned by the intensity behind her eyes. She really wants you to understand this. You can’t fathom why. “Just like I know you’re more than a gross piece of casteist trash, we’re more than just lowbloods under your feet, Equius. We’re people. Just like you’re a person.” She lays a hand, feather-light, on your arm. “ _I’m_ a person.”

 

Your throat seizes and bobs. Her hand taps lightly against your skin, almost like a…like a…

 

“We should actually spar sometime,” she says. “You might learn something.”

 

And with that she flounces off. You swallow hard. Your head rings. Your skin burns.

 

It…it appears…you need a towel.

 

And to rethink your life.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all! I am currently wriggling in the crushing grip of Finals Week so obviously the only thing to do was to write more Kingdombent so I can get this next part out into the interwebs. Wheee!
> 
> Also, by way of announcement, sometime next week or the next I am going to be hosting a Kingdombent Request Night on the askblog (ask-kingdombent.tumblr.com). That'll be fun! I hope you guys will join the fun. :)
> 
> I swear the plot is going to pick up soon but for now...fluff. Enjoy, hopefully!

==>Sollux: Hack

Your name is Sollux Captor and that is your specialty.

At the current moment you are getting your technical feelers all up in Pyrope’s husktop. She’s good, got all of her files locked down nice and tight, but you’re better. As soon as you bypass this piece of code—

Immediately a flashing .gif appears on your computer, cerulean-blue with a caricature of Serket sticking her tongue out at you.

 _Uh-oh! Looks like your bulge just got blocked!_ ~**Serketware**~

You frown, try for another few minutes to penetrate the sudden firewall, and give up. Not because she’s a better hacker, oh no; you’ll be through it soon, if you keep working at it. You’re just hungry.

There’s a knock at your respite block door, and you sit back in your chair and close your husktop.

“Come in.”

Pyrope swans in with a tray loaded down with enough food for three hyenas, grinning like one and shaking her head.

“If you wanted access to my files, Captor, all you had to do was ask,” she says, and you color. Apparently Serket is better than you thought, if tripping the .gif also alerted Terezi to your presence. You’re going to have to be more careful.

“Eat up, Appleberry,” she says, extracting a sandwich from the pile and popping it into her mouth. “I have something I want to talk about with you.”

You grudgingly sit down and pick at a bag of potato grubs. “I never thaid I wath going to work with you, Pyrope,” you remind her.

“You never said you weren’t, either,” she says breezily. “Now pipe down, there’s actual trouble afoot in space.”

You frown. “Trouble?”

She nods and swallows. “Word on the street is the Condesce and the Grand Highblood had a falling-out. Her health has taken a nosedive and he’s scuttled off in another spaceship.”

You shrug. “Tho?”

Terezi rolls her eyes. “If you paid half as much attention to the Empire as you pretend to do, I wouldn’t have to explain myself. Think, Appleberry. The Grand Highblood and the Condesce have been more or less the joint head of the Empire for hundreds of sweeps, maybe thousands. They’ve always passed the same decisions, made the same calls. They were practically interchangeable. And now this? Sounds fishy, doesn’t it?”

You actually put a chip in your mouth, chew, and swallow, thinking. Aradia took more interest in this kind of thing, but as Head Spymaster, you’re not unaware of the implications…according to your intelligence, the Grand Highblood hasn’t been apart from the Condesce’s side since she got sick nearly a sweep back. Generally-accepted knowledge is that they’re moirails. Doesn’t mean it’s true, but you think you can say with certainty that they appear close.

“What maketh people think they’ve had a falling-out?” you ask. “GHB could jutht be looking for thome thpathe or taking care of a Church matter.”

“That was my initial thought, so I conducted an investigation,” Terezi shrugs. “Before I tell you the following information, I want to make sure this stays between you and me, Sollux.” You blink at the usage of your first name and bristle, but not a lot. “Not even Vriska knows what I’m about to tell you.”

You blink again and set the chips aside, leaning forward, your brows furrowing. You should resent her for placing her trust in you when you haven’t given her a reason to, but, well, information is information.

(Besides, maybe you kind of don’t dislike her too much. Maybe. She has a sense of humor you appreciate. The gallows jokes at dinner were priceless.)

“I have an informant inside of the Condesce’s ship,” she says, and you frown deeper than you’ve frowned all day.

“Who?”

“Someone very close to her,” Terezi says. “In the interest of protecting them, I’m not going to say much more than that, but I can tell you that they can be one-hundred percent trusted.”

You fold your arms. “How do you know?”

“And this is the part where you just have to trust me as far as you’re able, Captor,” she says, and your mouth turns down at the corners again. Welcome to Frown Town. “According to my informant, who keeps very close tabs on her, the Condesce and the Grand Highblood didn’t have so much a disagreement as an airing of grievances that ended with him leaving the ship and her weaker than ever.”

You snort. “What, a betrayal leaveth the great Empreth of the Empire incapathitated?”

“We both think it wasn’t so much finding out her closest advisor is a traitor so much as she’s just…giving up,” Terezi shrugs. “We can’t know for sure what goes on in her head, but in my opinion, she’s just tired of living. If she wasn’t so sick maybe it wouldn’t be as big of a deal.”

“Yeah, quethtion about that,” you butt in. “Troll tech ith thome of the motht advanthed in the univerthe. How come we can’t cure thith?”

“It’s an alien bacteria. We don’t have the means to combat it without finding out its planet of origin and plumbing that planet for a cure,” she shrugs. “Not that we haven’t tried. Feferi thinks it’s just her time.”

You sort of nod. “Did your informant have any information about where the Grand Highblood ith going?”

“They were able to place a short-term tracking grub on the craft before it left the docks,” Terezi says, digging into her sandwich again. “Judging by the trajectory of the ship before the grub died, it’s possible that he’s headed for some of the rebel planets.”

A cold prickle goes down your spine.

“That’th brazen,” you say. “If you accuthe the Grand Highblood of treathon it could be very bad for everybody, ethpecially you.”

“I’m not unaware,” she says mildly. “I’m not saying anything definite, because I just don’t know. But together, between our brains, I think we could get a clearer picture of what’s going on.”

You sit back, rubbing your jaw, studying her. It’s always a good shot to assume that she’s trying to pull you into a scheme that will get you culled for treason or worse. Not even KK could protect you if you let her entangle you too much. You feel like you’re being set up as a fall guy and it’s making your horns itch. She placidly takes a swig of coffee and bites into an apple, and you’d think she’s ignoring you if you weren’t paying attention to her nostrils, which are wide and flare now and then, like she’s sniffing for your reaction.

“We have to tell Feferi and KK,” you say. “That’th my condition.”

“Of course,” Terezi nods. “As soon as possible.”

Her lack of protest surprises you. You furrow your brows.

“I don’t underthtand you,” you tell her.

“Few people do,” she says, and though she’s grinning her voice is tired. Huh. “We can talk about this more after the meeting tonight. Get together a game plan for telling our bosses.”

“Thoundth good,” you sigh. You are never going to get what game she’s playing. The two of you dissolve into idle chatter as you finish off the food, and she leads the way out of your block as you walk down to the meeting. Just outside the door you run slap-bang into Ampora.

“Watch it,” he snarls as the two of you steady and straighten your clothes. “I’m walkin’ here.”

“For someone who wears glasses, it’s cute how blind you are,” Terezi cackles, and Ampora’s head jerks up.

“Ter? What are you doin’ down here?”

“I might ask you the same question,” she says, placing herself a little bit in front of you. You grimace.

“I’m coming back from tryin’ to talk some sense into Nep,” Ampora scowls. “I swear she’s tryin’ to pick a fight with me every few seconds in meetings.”

Terezi gives a long, loud sniff in Ampora’s direction. For some reason he goes violet around the fins.

“And now answer the question, Ter,” he growls. “What are you doin’ down here?”

“Mr. Captor and I had business to discuss,” Terezi says loftily.

“What kind a business?” Ampora folds his arms.

“Business,” Terezi repeats. “When you need to know, I’ll tell you, and not a moment sooner.”

They seem to be staring each other down. Your neck hairs prickle. What is going on here?

Terezi turns on her heel and flounces off. “I’ll see you at the meeting, Eridan.”

“Sure,” Ampora grunts. As soon as she’s out of sight you find yourself pinned to the wall by a powerful seadweller arm.

“Whatever game you think you’re playin’ with Terezi,” he snarls, shark teeth close to your face, “give it up now. She’s not interested.”

You blink, and then it hits you.

“Never pegged you for the jealouth type, Ampora, but I gueth it maketh thenthe,” you say, a grin spreading over you face. Ampora actually _snarls_.

“Stay away from her,” he says imperiously, and then stalks down the hall, cloak billowing impressively. You reach out with your psionics and set a corner of it on fire. He curses, stamps it out, and glares murderously at you, mouth opening to say something.

“What’s the holdup here, nook-nuggets? Move it!” A harsh voice sounds almost directly in your ear, and Karkat stalks by, glaring at both of you. “Some people need to use this hallway, y’know.” He spins Ampora around by the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”

And that’s how KK frog-marches both of you into the board room and sits you both down like wigglers. Your ears are burning with shame as the room snickers at the three of you.

“Now that everyone’s apparently ready to act their age,” Karkat growls as he sits down in his usual seat, “let’s get down to business.”

You lock eyes with Ampora and glare at each other. One of these days you’re gonna get a chance to knock this douchebag down to size and you’re going to enjoy it.

==>Kanaya: Kidnap the Scion

With pleasure! It’s been a couple of weeks since either of you got any real down time, certainly together, and you felt it might be time when Karkat spent over ten minutes drawing a vividly detailed verbal picture about how Vriska’s proposal of a planet-wide security system accessible to the Empire is a mistake.

Personally, you’ve been thinking some more surveillance could be helpful in tending to planetary problems, but before you can convince Karkat that the idea is a good one and he should go with it (with some alterations of your and Sollux’s design, of course), he needs to relax.

You knock on his block door and smile genially when he answers.

“Come in,” he says. “Hey, Feferi, don’t come out indecent, we have company.”

“Hi, Kanaya!” Feferi says through the ablutions block door, and you glance at Karkat, who avoids your eyes. Hmm.

“If this is about the clade meeting in a couple hours, I swear I’m going to be there, I’m just moving a little slow today,” he says, and you notice he is still wearing his pajama pants and seems to be struggling with the buttons of his ceremonial-red shirt.

“We’re not attending the meeting tonight, I’m afraid, Karkat,” you say. He blinks.

“Why?”

“Because you and I have a trip to the spa to attend,” you say, and wave your hand as he begins to sputter a protest. “I’ve already cleared it with Sollux and informed Terezi where we will be today. You need a vacation, dear.”

Karkat glares, but the corner of his mouth is twitching as he strips out of his red shirt and trades it for solid black.

“Good idea,” Feferi says as she exits the ablutions block in a cloud of steam, mussing a little with her hair. “Karcr—Karkat’s been so tense!”

Karkat’s cheeks go rusty-red and he stomps into the ablutions block with a pair of pants under his arm, slamming the door with more force than necessary.

You glance at Feferi, who smiles and shrugs, her fins fluttering.

“Well, he is,” she says. You make a mental note to plumb her for gossip later. Karkat may say that you have a problem, but he is silly and has no room to talk; you’ve seen him chatting with Ampora in-depth about the latest soap opera episodes at lunch. Besides, although it may not be showing just yet, as his matesprit Feferi has already seen a part of Karkat that none of the rest of you have and probably never will, even if they are still painfully awkward around each other.

(He’s taken to scooting her chair back for her whenever he beats her to the conference block. It’s adorable.)

Feferi sits down at the vanity just as Karkat emerges from the ablutions block, tugging a comb out of his curly mess of hair. A smile tugs at your mouth and you open it to offer your assistance.

“Let me get it, Karcrab,” Feferi says, standing up, and you blink, closing your mouth as Karkat rolls his eyes and shoves the comb in her hands, letting her sit him down in her place.

“You don’t have to,” he grumps. “My hair’s just fine.”

“Don’t be shelly, I like doing it,” she smiles, and you sit at the foot of the bed, noting how it looks as if two people have definitely been sleeping in it. Sollux owes you and Nepeta five caegars.

You watch as Feferi gently runs the comb through Karkat’s hair and talks (glubs? She’s making significantly more puns and has a much stronger seadweller accent here in relative privacy) at him. Or perhaps to him, since…

“Yeah, well, Eridan can suck an egg, because he’s wrong,” Karkat says, and Feferi laughs. “No, don’t giggle at me, I’m right. Anyone who thinks he needs that much product in his hair can’t possibly be trusted to make the right decision about what you wear to meetings.”

“Well, it wouldn’t krill me to make a bigger statement aboat my rank,” she says, and you and Karkat both tense before she goes on. “I mean, half the time, I can’t get any of my clade to listen if I’m not doing the Voice, espeshoally if they don’t want to do it!”

You relax. Karkat rolls his eyes. You like how they seem to have forgotten that you are there.

“But I pike other colors,” Feferi says, and you see in her reflection how she kneads her lip with her teeth. “I…like yours, Karkat.”

Karkat’s face goes very, very red. He opens his mouth, closes it, and you try not to make any sudden movements because if you interrupt them you will be very cross with yourself.

“I mean, since we’re matesprits anemoneway and all,” Feferi says, more in a rush, “would it be weird if I wore something your color? I mean, nofin huge, of course, just—just a little something.”

“I…I guess,” Karkat says. “It. Uh. Would probably do something for reminding the grubnut gallery that we’re supposed to be on the same side now. Did…did you have something in mind, or…?”

“Oh, no, not yet,” Feferi says, and she’s blushing, too. You are practically giddy with glee right now. “I just thought I’d run the idea by you.”

“It’s good with me,” he shrugs, then stands and turns around. “Think I’ll return the favor, if you’re okay with it.”

Feferi nods, and Karkat runs his fingers through his hair, fluffing it a little, before he seems to remember you’re there. He coughs.

“Give my regards to the idiots,” he says to Feferi. “Come on, Kanaya.”

You and Feferi exchange smiles as Karkat hustles you out of the block.

“If you tell anybody about what you just saw,” he says viciously in your ear as you link your arm with his, “I will burn your sewing machine.”

You pat his arm and smile, a very knowing smile that flusters Karkat even more. “Of course, sir. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me, you know I hate that,” he grumps, but his shoulders are loosening as much as they’re capable before a masseuse gets its hands on him. “What’s with the impromptu evening of frivolity?”

“It was either a mani-pedi with massages or sinking my claws into my prospective ashenmate,” you say mildly, with a roil in your gut when you think about Vriska Serket. If you were a younger troll her cavalier attitude would certainly have swept you along, but you are older and wiser than you were a few sweeps ago. You have real concerns about what Vriska does to Tavros and want to forestall what would certainly be a disaster of a black—or red—relationship between them. You haven’t been afraid of Tavros Nitram at any point in your life but sometimes he tips his horns the slightest bit during meetings and you feel a tremor run down your spine. When did he grow into his horns and latent aggression so well?

But you are not here to think about Tavros or Vriska, you are here to spend time with Karkat. You tune back into what he is saying.

“—following me around,” he complains, and you frown. “I swear, every time I turn around, he’s lurking in some corner like the clownish doofus he is, staring at me.”

Ah. Gamzee. You frown deeper.

“Have you thought about asking Aradia for extra protection?” you ask, pausing to punch in the code for the land rover vehicle storage block. Your preferred spa is several miles away and you do not feel like walking today. “I’m sure she would oblige.”

“She would, that’s the problem,” Karkat says. “She would enjoy it too much and I think from her, Gamzee would, too. They keep making respite block eyes at each other every time they disagree on something.”

“I thought I might have caught a whiff of black hormones, but I thought it was Nepeta and Eridan again,” you say.

“Wait, Eridan and Nepeta?” Karkat asks as he hauls himself into the passenger seat of your chosen land rover. “What about Eridan and Nepeta?”

“Well,” you say conspiratorially as you pull out of the vehicle storage block, “Sollux told me, in his own words, that he found the two of them ‘thucking fathe’ in one of the training blocks just last week.”

“I thought Nepeta had better taste than that,” Karkat says, and you laugh. “Then again, she had a crush on _me_ for a while, so I guess not.”

“You are a troll any person would be lucky to have in their quadrants,” you say, patting his shoulder. “I’m certain Feferi would agree.”

“Okay, can we not do this? This teasing thing? I don’t like it,” Karkat growls, slinking down in his seat. You smile.

“Like it or not, Karkat, it’s the truth,” you say. “Permit me the joy of teasing you about your so-far-so-reasonable matesprit rather than having to plot my vengeance for your death at her claws.”

He glances at you. You shrug and offer an apologetic smile.

“It may be too soon to tell, but I think we are all impressed with how bloodless the meeting has been so far. Nearly half a perigee of us crowded in on top of each other and the only violence is, so far as we know, consensual black mating fondness. It’s extraordinary, Karkat.”

He folds his arms. “Yeah. I kinda thought one of the coolbloods would have gone off their rockers by now.”

“That’s casteist, dear,” you say gently as you angle the land rover to flatten a night-walking revenant. Really, it’s just rude of them to come out when decent trolls are about, you think as you turn on the windshield wipers to clean off some of the effluvia. “But privately, between you and me…I did, too.”

“I think you might be keeping the loudest one under check,” he says, and you sigh.

“If only that were the case,” you say. “Vriska is difficult to work with.”

“I meant Eridan.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on, Kanaya, even Tavros notices it,” he says. You blink again.

“I…don’t understand.”

“You speak and he shuts up and listens,” Karkat says. “He might as well spend the entire meetings drawing both of your initials with little diamonds in the middle. He’s so pale he actually thinks he’s being _sneaky_ about it.”

You flex your fingers on the steering wheel as the spa comes into view.

“I haven’t seen anything,” you say stoutly. “You must be mistaken.”

He shrugs. “Probably am. It’s not like I know anything about romance from thorough previous study or anything.”

“Your extensive movie-watching does not qualify you as a relationship consultant, Karkat,” you say, but with a smile as he glares at you. “Eridan Ampora is no more pale for me than he is likely to gracefully concede any point with the Nation.”

Karkat laughs, and throughout the rest of your evening you swap idle stories and, yes, gossip. Karkat refuses to get his claws enameled, though he does get them buffed up while you wiggle your matte black paint job under the drying lamps and admire the effect. You also try very hard not to laugh at Karkat’s audible sighs and squeaks as the masseuse applies a really first-class amount of strength into working out the kinks and knots undoubtedly permanently tied into Karkat’s back muscles.

“Kanaya, let’s run away and get massages all the time,” Karkat says muzzily, sitting in a chair next to you as you get your pedicures done next. “You’n me. Relaxation Central Station.”

You settle into the padding and smile. “That sounds tempting, darling, but if we left, the Nation would fall.”

He sighs deeply. Once upon a time he would have made a little half-joke about letting it fall in on itself, but tonight, he simply shrugs. Your blood-pusher swells a little to think of how far he’s come since his rebellious zombie-seeking pre-molt days. It’s no secret that you and Karkat have always had a special regard and respect for each other, but for so long you knew that he was out of your diamond’s reach and you therefore made do with a friendship that bordered it but never really crossed over.

Like Vriska, if Karkat was available when you were younger, he would have completely captured you. Being older and wiser also means you know that your and Karkat’s friendship doesn’t need a label or a piece of quadrant jewelry to make it special or important. He is your dear friend, and you will always be there for him, but you think that for his pale quadrant, he needs more of a challenge. Between the two of you, he would be the unstable party, and as much as you would love to put him in a pile some days, Karkat is old enough now to take care of his own battles. He needs to be needed more than he ever needed to be pacified.

However, in your most private of thoughts, the troll who wins his pale affections one day had better really be something special, because he deserves the moons and anything less will not do.

As you walk back to the land rover, Karkat pulls you in for a quick, rough hug.

“Thanks,” he says gruffly. “I needed this.”

“I know,” you say serenely, smiling at him, and you plant a kiss between his horns. “The night is still young. Do you want to really push how much trouble we will be in?”

Karkat grins at you, baring teeth, and you rev up the engine.

Night-walking revenants are slower and a lot more sluggish.

They are also much more fun to hit with a large vehicle while blasting Troll Ke$ha.

Moirallegiance may not be in your cards, but as for having a wonderful friendship, you and Karkat are really the best there is.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a little bit more done, whee! Also, here at this juncture, if you've looked at the shipping chart I originally linked to this one, I would advise mild distrust of the shipping chart. Most of the pairings will stand, but there have been at least two dark horses I didn't expect shifting some things around. Also, I swear to glob I will have an actual plot here soon, but for now, it's a slow-boil background sort of thing while we push around our cast of players on the emotional stage. If anyone is getting bored, don't be afraid to say so, because that is my greatest fear right now.
> 
> As always, enjoy!

==>Tavros: Rein It In

 

Your name is Tavros Nitram and you’re working on it, thanks.

 

Today’s debates are about the same thing you’ve been talking about for three nights now: the new headquarters of operations for your allied nations. It’s a little difficult, when only one country owns the land and the other owns the skies and the seas. You personally think an orbiting station would be best, and it’s not like it’s outside the realm of possible to make, but that’s not actually what your issue is right now.

 

Your issue is that Vriska Serket keeps smiling at you and you _don’t like it_.

 

You are not actually all that smart a troll, you think (Nepeta says otherwise but she’s biased), but you know when somebody’s trying to flirt with you, and Vriska has been putting the moves on you since you got here. She’s pretty and all, but everything about her smug mannerisms rubs you up one side and down the other all wrong. She’s rude and entitled and if you hear her cracking a joke about Karkat’s horns _one more time_ you’re gonna do something not very nice.

 

(Not like you and Karkat are all that buddy-buddy on most days either, but he’s your friend and your Scion and it’s been your job to help protect him since you hatched.)

 

You’re not smart, but you know your own feelings, and you know that there is something terrifying about the way you feel about Vriska Serket. There is something very Not You about the way you want to grab her by the hair and bounce her skull off the flagstones a few times until she _shuts up_. It isn’t a rivalry because you don’t want her attention, and you don’t care about her approval. You just want her to stop bothering you and the depths to which you imagine you will go to make her stop are starting to scare you.

 

Kanaya puts her hand on your clenched wrist. It’s a subtle gesture, you think, pretty well covered-up by the loud arguing going on at the other end of the table. Your auspistice is a godsend, to be honest. You think you would really have hurt Vriska or others without her interference. Though you think she’s getting at least half as annoyed with Vriska as you are.

 

“Honestly, you’re all being so stupid about this issue,” Vriska drones from across the table. “It’s clear that the best option for everybody would be to make a station here planetside.”

 

“Be that as it may, I am uncomfortable with the thoughts of leaving the fleet and other colonies virtually unprotected,” Equius says. “Middle ground being impossible in this situation, perhaps it would be better if a secure network channel were set up for instantaneous communication while the Nation monitors its holdings and the Empire monitors theirs.”

 

“With Empire citizens going planetside to start more fully repopulating the planet, I don’t like the look of the Empire being in two places at once without the Nation’s approval,” Kanaya objects. “Unless we want to revisit the debate on full intermingling at this juncture, which I think—”

 

“Why bother, nobody’s gonna agree,” Vriska interrupts with a yawn. “Just set it up in the desert and call it done. I’m bored.”

 

You glare at her, as do several people around the table, but hold your tongue.

 

“No, we are going to come to a consensus about this, because that’s what you do when you run an alliance,” Karkat says.

 

“Call it what it is, Vantas. We’re reorganizing our entire species into a single entity. We’re reuniting back into one empire,” Vriska says, and there is a displeased and uneasy murmur up and down the table. You glance at Kanaya, who looks back and shrugs with a wry nod. “That’s why it makes the most sense to have it here on Alternia, numb-bulge.”

 

“Technically, until we make a law about it, we’re still two separate nations,” Feferi pipes in. “Allied nations, but two of them.”

 

“We’re sending Empire citizens back to Alternia, having a single Mother Grub, and arguing about how to share resources. What about this makes any of you think that we’re going to stay separate for long?” Vriska counters. “And while I’m on the subject, why even call us an Empire anymore? We’re under constant threat from colonial rebels, our borders are shrinking every sweep, and we’re going _back_ to the home planet we haven’t lived on for centuries. I mean, come _oooooooon_ , guys, it’s right in front of your snouts and none of you are choosing to acknowledge it.” Vriska tips back in her seat, hands laced behind her head, grinning lazily.

 

“And I gueth you hope onthe that happenth, you can put the hemocathte right back where it wath to begin with,” Sollux growls, standing. “Over my dead body, Therket.”

 

“Would you pipe down, Captor, I wasn’t even thinking that. _Jeeeeeeeez_ , how paranoid can you get?” Vriska rolls her eyes. You, in your gut, believe Sollux more than her, but still, say nothing.

 

“You didn’t have to. Everybody elthe in your clade ith thinking it and you know it,” Sollux says. He’s sparking again, teeth bared, and you feel a prickle of unease, glancing at Aradia. She looks back, frowning. “Thith whole thing hath been a trick from the beginning, I jutht know it. How long do you blueblood thtoogeth think you can wait before you finally jump in and try to off uth? Becauthe I can tell you _right now_ , I’m not gonna wait!”

 

Aradia opens her mouth. It’s Terezi’s hands that reach him first.

 

“Calm down, Appleberry,” she says, and it’s the most…normal…you’ve ever heard Terezi sound. She’s usually cackling about something or other. “Nobody is going to enslave anybody. You’re getting worked up.”

 

“Vrithka hath a point, though,” Sollux argues, though to your amazement the sparks are dwindling. You look at Kanaya, who is smiling. Did she know? Or is she just signaling approval? Whatever it is, thank gog for it, because Sollux has needed a moirail something awful for sweeps.

 

Not that none of you haven’t in the past, you amend to yourself, it’s just, Sollux has added baggage of death-dreams and a wicked bipolar streak accentuated by his obsession with twos, and out of all of you he’s posed the most damage to himself and others since wigglerhood. He and Aradia had a pale fling in your sixth and seventh sweep, but broke it off the closer to Ascension you all got. And you know this from Nepeta, who has made it her business to know everybody’s secret relationships ever since you and her started hanging out more. Insurance or just curiosity, either way, it paid off.

 

But anyway. You’re distracting from the current narrative, which is impolite.

 

“—looks like it, but trust me, nobody at this table is planning a hostile takeover,” Terezi says soothingly, and her thumb is running over Sollux’s shoulder. “Sit down. Let’s discuss this rationally like we have been doing for a perigee now.”

 

Sollux looks at her for a very long moment, then takes a breath through his nose and nods, sitting back in his chair and throwing Vriska a sour look. Terezi drags her chair over and plonks it next to Sollux, squeezing into the space between him and Gamzee with minimal fuss. Out of the corner of your eye you see her hand reach over and possibly hold his under the table. That is so juvenile. It’s cute.

 

“Ultimately the final decision is in the hands of our benevolent leaders,” Terezi says, nodding at Karkat and Feferi. “If a decision has to be reached about this today, then I would suggest we start with the concerns about merging into a single entity, whether now or in the future.”

 

Karkat nods and rubs at his jaw.

 

“The way it looks, it might be a possibility,” he says. “If we’re going to have Empire villages here planetside, then I definitely want Nation presence in Empire space. But the Nation and the Empire don’t have to become one huge Empire if we don’t want them to. And I’ll be honest, I don’t want them to. Not yet. It would cause complete chaos. I wanna see if the trolls we govern can manage to get along without being complete burning itching nookchafes to each other first.”

 

“Not yet?” Aradia says. “So it’s a likelihood?”

 

“What did I just say?” Karkat barks. “I said yes, it _is_ a possibility that it could happen one day. Because, look, we kicked this entire conference off with a _quadrantlocking ceremony_. For _matespritship_. It could have been for moirallegiance or even for kismesissitude, either one would have made sense for two nations agreeing to help each other and not mingle, but no, they picked matespritship, and we _have_ been mingling. Look at this.” Karkat gestures at the table and with a start you realize he’s right; on your right is Kanaya, but on your left is Equius, and beside him, Nepeta. Gamzee and Terezi sitting next to Sollux, Eridan and Aradia side-by-side—it’s all mixed up, and you didn’t even notice.

 

“Karkat’s right,” Feferi says. “Right now, we are two separate countries agreeing to assist each other, but there’s the potential here…if, in the future, we want to take it…for us to be something…more! But we don’t have to be if we don’t want to be, y’know?”

 

“Now, as for the location of the joint headquarters,” Karkat says, and his eyes rove the table. “Tavros, you’ve been quiet all meeting. Did you have a suggestion?”

 

You start, blinking, and Kanaya squeezes your hand.

 

“Um,” you say, swallowing and working through your sudden shyness as all eyes turn to you, “I…I was…tossing an idea around, sir.”

 

“And?” he says, with the smallest of winces.

 

“What—what if we had a station that orbited Alternia?” you say. “It—it would be close enough to the planet to resolve any problems, but also in space and in better connection with the fleet and colonies, should—should we agree to keep them.” Which, you’ll be honest, you’re not agreeing you should, but the side-eye Vriska shoots you makes you think you should keep your mouth shut on that topic. Nepeta too, honestly.

 

Karkat’s eyebrows go up.

 

“I like it,” he says. “Feferi?”

 

“It seems like the closest thing we’ll get to a compromise,” she nods. “Guys? What do you think?”

 

“I think it’s stupid,” Vriska says, and your shoulders hunch. “It’s still bound to the planet, so why not just put it _on_ the planet?”

 

“Because being able to travel back and forth is kind of, um, important,” you say, trying to keep the stammer out of your voice as her eyes narrow. “If it’s a space station, it could land on Alternia for any special business and go anywhere in the galaxy, too, while saving on the fuel it would take to launch it.”

 

“And would it be an _armed_ space station?” Eridan asks suspiciously.

 

“No more armed than it would take just to protect the station itself,” you say. “Which, um, I don’t think you can really overtake much of anything with just shields and short-range turret guns.”

 

There are nods up and down the table, and you feel moderately more cheerful. Aradia gives you a furtive thumbs-up and grins.

 

“Then let’s vote,” Karkat says. “I’m in favor.”

 

And so is almost everybody else, except two people—Nepeta, who has concerns about the resource management it would take to construct the station, and Vriska, who is still stubbornly maintaining that a planetside station would be best. Nepeta’s concerns are talked about and assuaged when Feferi mentions a couple of Empire space stations currently in for repairs on an outpost planet that would do the trick. Vriska’s are talked over and ignored, until by the end of the meeting she is _steaming_ with irritation and glaring daggers at you. You smile benignly and ignore her.

 

You are imagining a nice hot bath (with maybe your matesprit to join, hmmm) as the meeting adjourns, chairs scraping, trolls exiting as you yawn and stretch.

 

“Tavros, can I talk to you?” Vriska says, still languidly lounging in her chair.

 

“No,” you say. “Leave me alone.”

 

“Oh come _on_ , Tavros, don’t be a dummy chicken, I just wanna talk.” She rolls her eyes.

 

“Then let me get Kanaya,” you say, all too aware of the empty room and the dangers it presents.

 

“What, do you always need a babysitter?” she says, and the suggestion is so ludicrous you drop the thought out of your head, ignoring the insistent nudging that _you should not talk without your auspistice present_. Kanaya was hurrying off to talk to…somebody…and you can handle Vriska.

 

You hope.

 

“Those were some guts you showed in the meeting today,” she says. “I’m proud of you.”

 

You blink. “Um.”

 

“Except for your dumb stutter, you’d be a totally awesome troll,” she says boredly. You stifle the growl that rolls up from your chest. “Listen, Tavros, I think you and me should work together on this whole space station thing. It’s a pretty good idea, even if it is impractical and really dumb.”

 

“I’m leaving now,” you say, and go to do just that, but Vriska bars your way. She’s as tall as you are and leans into your personal space, grinning. You think you catch a hint of something like perfume but more… _animal_ …on her, and realize that she’s actually putting out pheromones. Without your reciprocation, though, it’ll just be an annoying taste on the back of your tongue. Good.

 

“Why don’t we ditch this place for a while and go have some real fun?” she purrs. “Big strong tough guy like you, I bet you’d like letting loose.”

 

“Please leave me alone,” you say, quietly, because the sharp angles of her smile are unsettling (though not nearly as unsettling as her most recent and transparent come-on). “I don’t want to hang out with you.”

 

“Why not? Am I too blue for you, buddy?” she says, and leans really far into your bubble, this is uncomfortable, please stop. “Our ancestors were matesprits, y’know.”

 

You blink with the revelation, then scowl at the implication.

 

“I already have a matesprit,” you say shortly. “And she is a million times better than you and your stupid ancestor. I’ve told you several times to leave me alone. If you don’t move, I’m gonna have to force you.”

 

“Try it, idiot,” she says, the red lenses of her seven-pupil eye flashing. “Besides, who wants you in their crummy red quadrant, anyway? _Boooooooo-ring_. I like something a little,” she is so close your noses touch, “darker, myself. Black is totally also my color.”

 

You raise your hand, either to move her or to hit her, you’re not sure, and hear a mercifully calm voice.

 

“Please move, Vriska, you’re blocking the entrance.”

 

Vriska backs up, eyes on yours and still smiling. “Well hey, Kanaya. I didn’t hear you.”

 

“I didn’t want you to,” she says, and slides under Vriska’s arm. “Please be advised that if you want to talk to Tavros in the future, it won’t be advisable to do so without me there to mediate.”

 

“To meddle, you mean,” Vriska says. “Why you gotta bulgeblock, Maryam?”

 

“As Tavros’ auspistice, it’s my duty to make certain he avoids entanglements that would be detrimental to his health,” Kanaya says mildly. “Fight it all you want, but you are putting yourself in our third leaf the more you attempt to pull stunts like this. I will stop you, and if you do not want me to have to mediate, then leave Tavros alone.”

 

You read somewhere that anyone who understands the ashen quadrant is doing it wrong, but you really do think there might be something wrong with this scenario, something fundamentally broken. Auspistices are mediators, true, but both the mediated parties are supposed to _want_ their auspistice to meddle—sorry—interfere. You’ve heard of two-leaf auspistices, but you don’t think you are anywhere near volatile enough to be your own kismesis or whatever. You don’t know what to do when there’s you and your middle leaf, but the other leaf is not cooperating at all.

 

(You don’t think about the flash of irritation you felt when you heard Kanaya’s voice, because obviously you’d only be relieved that she interfered. Obviously.)

 

Vriska tosses her hair and snorts. “Fine. Who’d wanna mess with a chump like him anyway?”

 

You try not to snarl at her retreating back.

 

“I hate her,” you say, and it’s without passion, because there’s nothing about her that inspires mating fondness in you. Nothing at all. “I _hate_ her.”

 

“Sssshhh,” Kanaya says, and loops her hand around the inside of your arm, her nails resting against the sensitive skin on the bend of your arm. “Let’s get dinner.”

 

You follow her and try to control your breathing with difficulty. Vriska Serket makes you furious, and if she pushes you, she’s going to learn it soon.

 

==>Vriska: Nurse Wounded Pride

 

Your name is Vriska Serket and _excuuuuuuuuse_ you, what wounded pride?

 

Sure, you fumbled with the flirting this evening and Kanaya stuck her snout in it right as things were maybe turning a swing for the better, but that doesn’t mean your pride is _wounded_. If anything, you’re just bruised. Mildly sore. Trying to think of a better metaphor is lame so you stop.

 

You plop your tray down next to Equius and stir your mashed corn around with a fork, yawning.

 

“Your insistence on flirting with Nitram is beyond my capacity to understand and my patience to bear,” Equius says mildly, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his napkin and pushing his tray away. You roll your eyes and nudge him with your head (always careful of your horns, of course).

 

“Equiuuuuuuuus, he’s hoooooooot,” you whine, drawing your voice out to the exact number of syllables where you’re sure there’s eight letters in there. It’s a talent, one of the many you possess. “And so laaaaaaaame! Someone that pathetic and hot shouldn’t be allowed to be here!”

 

“Please be advised that you are in public and making something of a scene,” Equius says idly. Is he even listening to you? “Lower your voice by at least eight octaves.”

 

You grin and nudge him again. His subconscious callback to your quirk makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He likes you.

 

Rather than nudge you back or do _anything_ , he just sits like a cold fish, scrolling through something on his huskpad. You shovel some food in your mouth and lean over to snoop. He switches it off and flips the case closed on it.

 

“Whatcha doin’?” you ask.

 

“Leaving,” he says, and stands and walks away. You return to your food, wondering why he’s reading a trashy rainbow drinker novel again. You thought he kicked the habit after he recovered from troll mono or whatever it was he had when he was sick for a few weeks and had nothing better to do than read maudlin romance stories. You’d tried to edge a few pirate novels his way, since, come on, _pirates_ , but he’d just shrugged and gone back to his dumb “supernatural” crap.

 

You cast a bored eye on the tables around you, wondering if any scandals are brewing. To go this long without anything substantial beyond a few implied hookups is pretty boring. Like. Okay, Feferi and Aradia sitting together is pretty weird, especially since you think Aradia might be playing with her hair? Also, Gamzee is sulking in a corner instead of hovering over somebody trying to talk religion. You wonder what crawled up his nook and died. Karkat and Eridan look like they’re getting in a pretty heated discussion, about—ugh, their dumb soap opera again, _laaaaaaaame_.

 

You finish your food with the sound of Nepeta and Terezi’s combined cackling in your ears and leave, because wow that was so lame, dumb, and boring, you may have to invent a new word. A stupid word. Like…lamdumbore, or something…like…you know what, you are _way_ too cool to be thinking something like this, so let’s change the subject, okay?

 

Subject: a glasses-wearing nerd with stupid double horns and a stupid lisp. _Score._

 

You fix on your smarmiest smile and swagger by, laying on the charm, because you know exactly how long it took him to hack your firewalls and it was _shameful_. He glances at you and sparks a little, but says nothing as you fall into step beside him.

 

“So Captor, was your lusus stupid or are you just that bad at hacking?”

 

He scowls and flips you off.

 

“I’m just saying, any Spymaster worth their salt shoulda got past that baby barkbeast in ten minutes, but how long did it take you? Like, over an hour?”

 

“I wath buthy in the middle of it, not that it’th any of your buthineth,” he lisps at you. You grin. That lisp is so dumb. “And while I wath mething around with your wiggler’th firewall, I managed to get my handth on thomething a little more interethting from your perthonal huthktop.” He smirks, and you roll your eyes.

 

“I doubt you got anything more valuable than my Troll Pirates of the Caribbean downloads,” you say boredly. “Try harder, noob.”

 

He shrugs, a faint smile still on his face. “Alright, Therket, alright, I’m jutht thaying. It’th good.”

 

You wonder how long Terezi’s been papping that, because you grudgingly think she’s done good work with him here. He’s a _lot_ more fun to tease when he’s not accusing you of trying to subjugate all warmbloods or whatever. As if you’d even be into that. So _booooooooring_. Not like you’re some kind of hippie equalist or whatever, you just don’t think it matters all that much. You can swindle a lowblood just as easily as you can a highblood. They’re all stupid compared to you anyway, no matter what blood color they’ve got.

 

“Let me guess,” you say, “you found my super secret porn stash that nobody knows about ever. Gasp. Whatever shall I do, now that my dirty secret that literally nobody in the universe also has is out? I’m completely at your mercy, Captor.”

 

He whistles a few bars, and you freeze.

 

That mothergrubber.

 

He did _not_.

 

He swivels back around on his heel to grin at you.

 

“Low blow,” you say, and he shrugs.

 

“Thtop trying to get into the Nation mainframeth,” he says. “And thtop thending me taunting emailth, I have enough reathon to go trolling through your huthktop for more of The Totally Awethome Adventureth of Captain Mindfang ath it ith.” He practically leers at you. You flush. You need to delete everything on your husktop, _now_. “Oh wait, I already got it all. I’ve gotta athk, though: Mindfang’th Thexy Thex Tipth for Having Thexy Thex? Really?”

 

Your life is over. Why did you keep those copies. Why.

 

“Alright, Captor, let’s be reasonable adults here,” you say, a growl low in your throat. “What’s your price for those files to never see the dark of night ever again? A hundred caegars? Slave for a day? The password to Terezi’s husktop?”

 

He shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps up that leering grin of his. “I’ll hang onto them for now,” he says easily. “Let’th jutht thay that I’ll be in touch, Therket.” He waves and strides down the hall, a spring in his step that revolts you. You kinda wanna kill him. This isn’t fair at all. You need to steal those files back before your sordid past comes back to haunt you. This isn’t over, not by a long shot. You’re just getting warmed up!

 

Your palmhusk gives off a particular little chirp that is indistinguishable from your normal ringtone by half a beat.

 

Well. It seems duty calls.

 

You meander your way back to your block, lock the door, and press your ear to the door for a full minute, making sure nobody’s out there. Of course, you could do a mental sweep, but you’re already busy in making sure your psychic receptors are open enough to turn anybody back from bothering you. Your petty squabble with Captor about your wigglerhood video series forgotten, you open your desk drawer and pull out a slim black husktop, setting your personal husktop aside (but keeping CruelTube open, that stuff’s funny). You open it up and wait.

 

**SEARCHING…**

**SEARCHING…**

**SEARCHING…**

**CONNECTION ESTABLISHED**

**WELCOME, CAPTAIN**

 

You wait for all your encryptions to load before touching the keyboard. All the security makes it a little bit slower, but you’re patient when it concerns this. Terezi has only the vaguest idea what this is, and you intend to keep it that way until the last possible moment, because if your little operation is blown mid-mission it could very well backfire very badly on all of you. Say what you like about the Nation (and you often have to say much more than you really mean; blueblood bravado is one thing, but the only way to keep Equius happy and off your case is to make at least one casteist remark every conversation, so it’s like second nature now), but their existence is important to you and if this mission is compromised you will personally behead the one who blew your cover.

 

Besides, who are you to deny a bunch of suckers based on blood color? It’s just bad business, really.

 

**GAMMA SECTOR SHIPMENTS: DELIVERY TO PLANET 345 SUCCESSFUL**

Oh, good. You were worried about that one. Nice to know that your Gamma sector deliveryman can be counted on once in a while.

 

**CASSIOPEIA STAR SYSTEM ROUTE IMPASSIBLE DUE TO SUPERNOVA. ADVISE REROUTE.**

Oh, piss, it’ll take forever to track around that mess. Perhaps it would be better to cut the star system entirely, it’s not like the planets there are valuable or even necessary anyway…you do dislike losing anybody’s business, though, so maybe you’ll…no, can’t risk it, sorry, Cassiopeia system. You have to make these kinds of decisions now, so close to crunch time. And if Terezi’s hunch is accurate, you may be running out of time worse than you believed.

 

You sit back from the flashing blocky black-on-black lines of shipments and impending deals to brood a little. The Grand Highblood, huh? Puts the biggest, nastiest chucklevoodooing kink in your plans, you have to say…you always suspected a mole (in fact, you suspected several), but him? Talk about a kick to the bulge. It means you’re going to have to be twice as careful, and you know very well you’re nigh-untraceable right now. To your little minions, you’re the Captain. You never use names, you never use color, you’re invisible, a voice in the dark nudging your little pieces over the board. It’s made quelling insubordinations a tiny bit difficult, but really, when you have Terezi’s meticulously-kept profile of Empire assassins on-hand, who really needs to know?

 

See, the brilliance is, it’s totally not like you. You’re a showboater and you know it. The limelight is your best friend, after all! And you have to admit it, at first, you wanted to gloat to Terezi _so bad_ about how you have a subversive trade network and she doesn’t, but then what would be the point in that, to tell the ears and nose of the Empire exactly what you’re doing? Better to let the eyes (that’s you) deal with it.

 

**SHIPMENT TO TROJAN SYSTEM: ACCEPTED**

You read that line with no small amount of satisfaction.

 

Another piece of your puzzle falls into place, you muse with a grin on your face.

 

Excellent.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something resembling actual PLOT somewhere in this chapter, woohoo!
> 
> Let's try it out and see where it takes us!

==>Kanaya: Conclude Important Meeting

 

Oh, yes, of course, you’re merely…wrapping up as we speak.

 

Or rather, you’ve been done for some time, it’s just more interesting to trace patterns on Aradia’s back than move right now.

 

Aradia lies on her stomach, arms folded under her chin and thorax thrumming with her contented purring as you bask in the lingering cloud of pheromones and draw designs with the barest hint of pressure from your clawtips. Now and again she shivers when you meander close to a hickey, but her purring doesn’t let up.

 

“Beetle for your thoughts,” you say, shifting aside some of the heavy weight of her hair to bare more shoulder for you to touch.

 

“I think you bit me,” she says, grinning at your chagrined grimace. “Just a little.”

 

“Apologies,” you return. She hums a little and lays her head down on her arms, looking at you from under her lashes. “It’s been…a while…since we did this.”

 

“Too long,” Aradia smiles, and you return her hum with a little chirp of your own. You’d hesitate to put a label on this…arrangement…more or less because, for so long, you’re sure the Elders only expected the clade to fill the quadrants they ordered and no more. As the descendent of the Jade Mother, your only task was to be part-lusus part-moirail figure to Karkat. Which was burdensome enough on its own, but Aradia and Tavros truly got the short end of the arborial staff when it came to quadrants, because so little still is known about the Handmaid, and the Summoner’s only known quadrant was…well…

 

You still wonder at the idiocy you and the others were duped into by the Elders, now that you’ve had fresh air in your aeration sacs for weeks. It seemed much more normal even just a sweep ago. Pastoral, almost. Fulfill your destiny, walk in your ancestor’s footsteps and gain her glory, glory for the Nation and for your people.

 

Rather a load of cholerbear refuse, isn’t it?

 

But these are unpleasant thoughts and Aradia’s skin is pleasantly warm under your fingers. You press your palm to her skin and rub slow, wide circles.

 

If you had to name it…friends with red benefits, you’d think. Though matespritship is looking like a very real possibility in the near future.

 

“Now you’re looking far away.” Aradia’s voice brings you back. “Daydreaming?”

 

“After a fashion,” you reply. “Just thinking idle thoughts.”

 

She chuckles, sighing with contentment when you begin tracing your claws over her skin again.

 

“I think I might be serious about putting Gamzee on a leash,” she says, and your fingers pause.

 

“I think you could do better,” you say, and she laughs.

 

“I’m certain I could, but that’s half the allure,” she says. There is arrogance in the tilt of her mouth, a sharp amusement you’ve never really seen. “He’s so… _hateable_.” She purrs the word, a low rumble in her chest, and your stomach clenches momentarily.

 

“But enough about him,” she says, sitting up a little. “What about you?”

 

“Me?” you say, taken aback. “Dearest, the only person with access to my pails is you, you know that.”

 

She smiles very warmly at that. Your cheeks feel warm in return.

 

“No secret pitch longings, then?” she says. “Redrom prospects?”

 

“I think Equius thinks there’s something to be gained, but I can’t imagine what,” you snort, thinking back to the conversation you had a few nights go. “He noticed I was rereading Troll Twilight and wanted to talk about it. He’s been looking for excuses to talk, lately.”

 

“I think Nepeta’s been at him,” Aradia says speculatively. “She’s smitten.”

 

“It’s not as if he’s unattractive, taking him at face value,” you ponder, and this is a conversation you would only have with Aradia; not even Karkat would draw this information from you, because as closely as you’ve guarded him all these sweeps, you’ve guarded yourself tighter. “He merely opens his mouth and ruins the image.”

 

“He’s very pretty,” Aradia says, propping her chin up on her hand and thoughtfully studying you. “I wouldn’t mind a crack at it, if he ever gets his head out of his nook.”

 

You slap her arm, and she grins. “What? You can come too.”

 

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” you say, and she laughs, leaning in and kissing you.

 

“Maybe I am,” she says, “but I’ve never felt more free than when I’ve been here, and I mean to take full advantage before the Elders get it in their nugs to have us back under lock and key.”

 

It would certainly explain all the hookups you’ve seen lately, if the rest of your clade feels the same way. You’ve even seen _Sollux_ flirting a little with Vriska, though to your surprise Vriska didn’t seem to notice it for what it was. Or, at least, she wasn’t throwing herself at him, if she did. You wrinkle your nose at the thought of Vriska Serket and her obstinate refusal to accept your mediation, then smooth it away. You know Aradia’s more interested in the concupiscent gossip right now rather than your ashen woes.

 

“Shall we take bets as to who will be next?” you say mildly, and Aradia laughs, flopping onto her back and shoving her mass of hair out of the way.

 

“For certain, we know Nepeta and Eridan are engaging in caliginous activities in the practice rooms,” she says, ticking up a finger. “Vriska seems hot after Tavros, though with you in the mixture I doubt he’ll reciprocate. Sollux is tricky, he always has been, but I think he may be angling for Vriska’s spade himself, if he’s aware of what he’s doing. For myself, I want the clown.” She gives a smug, self-satisfied little purr again, and you close your eyes to will the image out of your mind. “And Karkat…who knows, with Karkat?”

 

“I believe he and Feferi may be edging up on something more genuine,” you say, and Aradia giggles. You take a moment to appreciate the surreal quality of the moment. At the beginning of this venture, you were all convinced that you were going to kill each other within a week. Part of you still is. But now, you’re joking with Aradia about which of your clade is going to be with which of the Empire clade, and it unsettles you, almost, thinking of just how smoothly this all fit together. There should have been fighting and bloodshed long before now.

 

Idly you wonder if part of that is because of Feferi and Karkat themselves. Or…perhaps just Karkat. He never would really admit it in seriousness, but leadership suits him and he wears it well. Single-handedly he seems to be forcing together an actual, functional alliance, and you’re all swept along in the pull of his tide.

 

“Genuine, you say?” Aradia muses. “Well, it would be about time. The servants who clean their block say they sleep on opposite sides of the bed as far as they can get from each other.”

 

You make a noncommittal grunt and shift a little.

 

“Equius really could be quite pretty,” Aradia says, a little more pensive, and you glance at her. She shrugs back. “I’m just saying. He could be fun, too.”

 

“Your obsession with sexual conquest is most unlike you,” you say, maybe a little hurt. A little. It’s not like you ever did say you were quadranted or anything. Aradia looks at you, then rolls over on top of you. Her hair curtains around you both.

 

“If I did want a taste,” she says, “I wouldn’t dream of sampling without my number one connoisseur.” You blink, and she puts her mouth close to your ear. “I’ve a mind to get a little…wild…before they force me back in my box, Kanaya. I’m not saying you should do what you’re not comfortable with.” She nibbles a little at your earlobe. “I’m just saying it would be better with you.”

 

It’s as tender as she’s ever been. You are more than a little confused, a feeling that persists until long after she’s ceased kissing you and fallen asleep. What does she mean, it would be better with you? Is she…does she mean…

 

Either way, when you see Equius the next night, nose in his huskpad, you feel the ghost of Aradia’s teeth on your earlobe as you study the broadness of his shoulders and briefly, briefly, wonder what such a straight-laced and altogether prudish troll would do, with you and Aradia both to mold him.

 

You sit down and strike up a conversation, wondering what on Alternia you think you’re doing.

 

==>Karkat: Encounter clown

 

No thanks, you’re trying to _avoid_ the clown.

 

And you’re doing a bang-up job, as a matter of fact; you haven’t seen that grubmunch all night.

 

You…haven’t seen him all night.

 

That’s a first.

 

Not that you’re complaining, but…you’re used to having a lanky shadow in the common areas, shooting you questions about your ancestor and the weather and any other inane thing that seems to pass through his leaky excuse for a pan. Gamzee Makara is honestly the most annoying, most irritating, most—

 

Most—

 

Is that…is that _crying_ you hear?

 

Now on high-alert for investigating strange noises, you creep down the hall, following the strange hiccupping sob-sounding noises. Down this way is the Mirthful Hall, you think, a little chapel set aside for any Mirthfuls passing through the area. It would be the one place you can think of Gamzee would be at this time of night, so close to sunrise, and the one place he should really not be if the windows haven’t been bolted yet. And why on Alternia would he be crying, that just makes no sense.

 

You continue to investigate, peering around the jamb of the arched doorway just in case he’s actually praying or chanting or whatever it is clown cultists do. To your surprise, he’s sitting in a pew rather than prostrate in front of the Faygo-sticky altar like all the other times you’ve seen him in here, and he does appear to be praying. At least, he has his head bowed; at least he’s stopped making the weird crying noise.

 

You should really go.

 

You carefully make sure your steps are heard as you enter the chapel, and slide into the pew behind him.

 

“Did you ever get your think on, brother,” Gamzee murmurs, “for how we all up and came to be?”

 

You sit and think, then say, “If this is an attempt to go through the chirpbeasts and the stripebugs talk with you, I’m leaving to go jump off a cliff.”

 

He laughs, a gravelly sound, and sniffs. “Naw, brother, naw, I’m just up and thinking what a miracle it is, all us up in here together. Miracles.”

 

Okay…so that’s new. Not that you’ve made an intensive study of stupid clown religions, but you’re pretty sure you’ve never heard any of them mention “miracles” unless they were talking about something particularly gory or colorful. Or possibly just idiotic.

 

“We all got our chill on here,” he goes on. “The highblood consorting with the low. Kings kneeling to peasants. The universe is coming undone.”

 

You take a calculated risk and slap Gamzee upside the head.

 

He growls, but not out of aggression; it’s a rueful noise and a bashful tilt to his horns as he rubs the spot you hit, which honestly, you didn’t think he could feel through that matted mass of hair.

 

“Sorry, brother,” he says. “I UP AND FORGOT MYSELF.” The strange snap to his voice chills you; you’ve heard him use it before, but in the chapel it echoes. Gamzee seems to keen and shrink back from the sound of his own voice, hands covering his ears. What a weirdo.

 

You stand. Gamzee turns and looks at you, standing himself, and he shouldn’t look so young, shouldn’t even dare to try and look vulnerable. You weren’t even doing anything, what is he looking like that for?

 

“Karkat,” he says, and then hesitates, or maybe just stops, just lets your name hang there between you without any of his clownish embellishments tacked on. You feel very strange in your gut as you glance at his hair—that stupid tangled hair—and maybe a little bit at his horns—his stupid flaky horns—and, alright, possibly just a glance at the welling bruises under his flimsy cultist vest—okay, actually, no, where did those—?

 

You flick aside the vest before you know what you’re doing, and Gamzee recoils, but not before you also see scrapes down his sides that look like claw tracks and lots of bruising, fresh layered on old. You wonder how anyone could avoid seeing it. You wonder what Gamzee did to everybody’s pans to possibly make them avoid seeing, why isn’t he doing it to—right, he can’t do it to you, and something in his face makes him look like he wouldn’t try to hide it from you anyway. You swallow. This can’t be happening.

 

“What angry cholerbear have you been wrestling?” you say, hating that your voice wobbles a little on the vowels when you’re trying to sound strong. He glances down at his chest, then back at you, and doesn’t say anything. “Come on, idiot, where’ve you been getting these? You look like you’ve gone a couple rounds with Zahhak.” You grimace. “Please, dear gog, tell me you and Zahhak aren’t an item.”

 

“No,” Gamzee says, and sounds just a little queasy, himself. “No, brother, no, these marks are up and reminding me of my place.” He touches them, presses them, and lets his hands fall away. “Reminding me what a piece of trash clown I all up is.”

 

You’d rather it was Zahhak. You flap his vest back over his purpled skin, closing your eyes.

 

“You did it to yourself,” you say, and Gamzee makes a little assenting noise.

 

“When the whispers call for blood,” he says, “I up and _deliver_.” Bitter, anguished, defeated, you can’t tell what he’s feeling, and you refuse to open your eyes until you don’t want to heave your bile sac all over the floor.

 

“Alright, look, bulge-for-brains,” you say, and finally look up, glaring. Gamzee shrinks a little. “Next time you feel like hurting yourself, come find somebody. Being a nuisance is better than doing this.” You flap his vest a little and then let it go, taking a step back. “I don’t even care if it’s me you want to talk to, just…stop…doing this to yourself.” You try to tell yourself it’s because no troll deserves to feel that way, not that the thought of _him_ doing it makes you jittery and upset. You know, alright, you kind of know that Gamzee’s mooning after you, it doesn’t mean you have to moon back. It’s not like he’s a pathetic piece of work that still needs someone else to wash his hair or anything.

 

Oh, gog, stop imagining washing his hair, numbnook. Stop it.

 

With great self-control born of your natural-born talent as a warrior and leader, you pull yourself out of your dirty thoughts and back into the present. Gamzee is looking at you curiously, blinking, his hands hovering somewhere between his side and you. You step out of the pew and back a few steps.

 

“Good morning,” you say, and turn tail and basically run out of the chapel. Oh gog. What’s wrong with you. What is even wrong.

 

Disturbed, you walk towards the cafeteria before you remember you’ve already eaten, and then waffle uncertainly about what to do or where to go.

 

“Karcrab!”

 

Oh, great.

 

You turn to face Feferi, pretending that the little upturned corner of your mouth doesn’t exist.

 

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says.

 

“Oh?” you say, because you are a gentletroll of fantastic wit and suavity.

 

“Yeah,” she giggles. “I need you to braid my hair.”

 

Do what, now?

 

You say as much, and she smiles.

 

“Aradia told me to ask you,” she says. “She said you did it the best, even better than Kanaya.”

 

“Well, that’s a bold-faced lie,” you say, and her smile falters a little. Your pump-biscuit twists. “But…I guess I can give it a shot. Come on.”

 

Once back in your shared ablutions block, you sit her down on a stool and commence with brushing her hair, to start. It’s very thick and wavy, not quite curly like Aradia’s, so you think it’ll be better for braiding. Typically you like to braid Aradia’s hair when it’s wet, but Feferi’s should be fine dry.

 

“So how did you learn to do this, anyway?” she asks. “Not a lot of trolls are into hair care like this.”

 

You shrug. “Seemed like fun when Aradia and Kanaya and Tavros would sit around braiding her hair. I got bored and joined them one day.”

 

A few moments of silence as you continue brushing her hair, and then she says, “You guys…are really close, aren’t you?”

 

You shrug. “Yeah, we were raised together and everything.” You begin sectioning her hair off. “When you grow up being taught that you’re clade first and foremost and your first priority is to protect each other, that tends to create some pretty strong bonds.”

 

“You’re lucky,” Feferi says, and sighs. “We’re clade mostly in name. Not that some of us don’t have good bonds, but if it came to following a clear voice of leadership, we’d descend into chaos before any of them listened to me.”

 

“I dunno,” you shrug, “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. You’re a good leader, once you stop second-guessing yourself.”

 

She twists around to look at you; you shift her hair around accordingly.

 

“You think so?” she asks, and it strikes you that you’re staring into the richest tyrian eyes in the galaxy. She’s kind of like you that way; she’s an anomaly, a one-in-a-million like you. You can’t help but think that if things had been different, maybe you’d be the one in a crown and she’d be the one scrounging to survive. It’s an odd thought, and you shrug it off. Crowns aren’t your style, anyway.

 

“For one thing, Terezi seems to be a mostly-common link between everybody,” you say, “and Terezi follows you explicitly. Equius heels when you tell him to. Even Vriska stops rolling her eyes every five seconds when you speak.” You turn her head back around to keep braiding. “You need to give yourself more credit. They can smell uncertainty.”

 

She’s silent, frowning into her reflection as you work.

 

“Are we ever going to reach true peace?” she asks, and you pause again.

 

“That depends on the trolls now,” you say, finishing up her braid and letting it fall in a thick rope down her back. “This conference is just to set up the ground rules. After that, who knows? Depends on what everybody else does.”

 

She nods, then stands and hugs you. Your hands hover uncertainly, unsure of where to put them, and you settle on patting her back.

 

“Thank you,” she says, and lets you go. “I’m going to bed soon. Are you coming?”

 

You feel some heat crawling up your neck and slap yourself to return to your senses.

 

“Yeah, coming,” you say, and don’t leave the bathroom until you’re sure the tips of your ears are not red.

 

==>Mysterious Figure: Creep

 

You are a Mysterious Figure and creeping is what you do best.

 

You creep along on silent feet, a trolloid figure that wouldn’t look out-of-place out of the corner of any late-morning wanderer’s eye. Your mission is one befitting your mysteriousness, of course, but let it suffice to say that it’s one of bad intentions, requiring the particular stealth of your species. An undisclosed species, you see.

 

You double-check your navigation apparatus to be sure you’re going in the right direction; this building is an ancient troll design, well-tunneled and reminiscent of an aimless insect hive. Your employer was emphatic on the importance of eliminating your target. Therefore, though it’s in your usual way to dispatch a crony or one of your many critters that hunt by scent, you will be taking care of this yourself. You swallow at the thought of the payment offered, and again at the price of failure that was vividly illustrated to you.

 

You stop outside a door that doesn’t seem any more decorated than the others, but your apparatus insists is the correct door. You press an ear to the door and listen hard. Deep, slow breathing. So asleep. You were told that this room has an external balcony; it will be perfect for your escape. You take an instrument out of one of your pockets and attach it to the door; it scuttles away and after a few minutes you hear a very soft _click_ , which tells you that the door was previously locked and is not anymore.

 

You carefully twist the doorknob, then move the door a fraction. Slowly, so very slowly, you edge the door open until it’s just wide enough to slip inside. You close the door back and retrieve your unlocking device.

 

There is a large sleeping platform in this room, with two bodies on it. You weren’t expecting the second, and are doubly careful in making sure your steps make no noise. You’ll have to move very fast once the deed is done, because it’s your experience that when you complete jobs with your hands, no target dies without a sound. No telling what will wake the other sleeper, or what the target will do as he dies; the slightest movement, the slightest sound, could spell your own death. You wait until your eyes adjust to the darkness completely before you move again.

 

You slide soundlessly upon your target, a young troll male with a shock of messy hair and very small horns. If you weren’t faced with the other troll—female, you think—you would take them for a trophy. But you freeze as the mass of hair shifts on the other side of the sleeping platform, and don’t breathe again until she settles.

 

You’ve gone back and forth about how to complete this mission in the past few moments, and decide that a knife between the ribs would be best. Not as much blood and perhaps you’ll have time to make it through the blackout curtains and off the balcony before he chokes and thrashes too much. It’s a large sleeping platform; she may never even notice her partner is dying until it’s too late.

 

You reach into your leg sheath and withdraw your favorite sort of knife, a wafer-thin blade razor-sharpened to the particular thickness needed to slide like butter through tough troll skin and cartilage. Could probably slice bones, as well, you’ve never tried. It’s also coated with a particular venom indigenous to a species of plant on your home world that, to your knowledge, has no antidote known to trolls. You like to be thorough in your line of work.

 

Your target sleeps curled in on himself, but today without much by way of blanket coverage, which is just as well. You analyze the angle you’ll need to puncture a lung, twirl the blade for a bit of personal flair, and drive it to the hilt up between the two ribs you’ve selected.

 

The troll chokes instantly and opens his eyes, violent red iris on yellow, and stares at you like he doesn’t understand what’s going on. Well, to be fair, you think as you retrieve your knife with a few unnecessary back-and-forth wiggles of the blade, he doesn’t. And he never will.

 

You leap for the curtains, expecting to have to finagle a door open on the other side, and your hands find solid wall. Confused, you pat the blackness as the troll continues to choke and wheeze, only in horror to understand that they aren’t the kind of curtains you were told would be installed—not mere cloth, but heavy-duty metal sliding walls. You curse yourself for a fool; it was a rookie mistake to not be absolutely sure of your exit, and now you have to waste time crossing the room to leave through the door. And judging by the panicked choking, you have seconds before the female wakes up.

 

You make a dive for it, and your sensitive ears are pierced by the female’s cry. You don’t stop straining for the door as the noise on the sleeping platform intensifies. Your eyes streaming from all the racket, you reach out to the door—

 

Only to be pinioned to the wall by…something…it…some kind of large double-headed eating utensil, you…it…can’t…

 

You die an ignominious death as the trolls on the platform continue to panic and scream.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on it some more. Intrigued at where it's going. Here, have a weird chapter of weirdness.

==>Feferi: Save your matesprit

 

Oh gog, oh glubbin’ gog, you have no idea, it’s dark and he’s suffocating and you just— _don’t—know—_

 

His mouth is moving but no words are coming out and his breathing is making wet guttural sounds and you killed the intruder, you know you did because you heard _that thing die_ , you threw your trident without even stopping to take aim and caught it on pure luck, he’s dying he’s dying _KARKAT IS DYING—_

 

You feel dizzy and cold, pressing your hand to the wound as it bleeds, and Karkat’s skin is on fire, almost burning your cool hands. He’s stopped thrashing so much, but his eyes are still huge, and you think…you think he’s going into shock, what do you do, what do you do what do you—

 

**_daughter_ **

 

You flinch on instinct, even though you know that voice. It cuts through the haze of your panic, through the paralysis creeping through your body. It resonates in your bones. It falls on your ears like a whisper.

 

**_despair is not yet your lot little one_ **

****

**_and there is a greater destiny to complete_ **

****

You’ve heard that voice a billion times, but only heard it prophesy once before. You know to listen when the voice calls. You close your eyes as time seems to slow, and against the dark of your lids you see something…pulse, almost. Writhe. It’s obscene, intimate, familiar, warm.

 

**_save him_ **

****

**_what once was cannot be again what will be has already been_ **

****

**_save him_ **

****

**_he is going to save you_ **

 

Your fingertips feel like they’re blazing, tingling with something hotter than even Karkat’s blood on your skin, and the darkness against your closed eyes twists around more frantically, in-tune with the increased beat of your blood-pusher.

 

“F—feri,” Karkat croaks, and you press your mouth in a tight line and close your burning hands on his stab wound.

 

**_save him_ **

****

In the writhing darkness, something pulses violet. No, not violet, something darker, something more like—more like—

 

Like a rush of thousands of wet slimy somethings converging on a single point, the heat in your body and in your hands seems to transfer, but you can still feel it, just out of reach, writhing and weaving. It seems to leech something out of you the longer you keep the connection; your bones heat and cool by turns and you feel caressed by something that belongs in the deeps, deeps of oceans, deeps of space, somewhere dark and unholy, where no living creature ever _ooooowwww_

 

You now feel like you’re disgorging something vital, something you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t—the cold has returned, but it’s like frost, like ice, like every warm happy thought you’ve ever had never happened, like every accidental brush against someone warmer-blooded was a figment—

 

**_let go_ **

****

**_let go before you destroy yourself_ **

 

_I can’t_ , you think desperately, _I can’t, I don’t know how, I_

 

And you feel Karkat’s hands on yours, and even though your eyes won’t open and you can’t move you feel your skin start to warm, just a little.

 

**_let go_ **

****

**_IT’S ALRIGHT N9W. Y9U CAN LET G9._ **

 

The writhing disappears into true darkness.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Added some tags, and can I just say how great it is that you guys are commenting and actually liking this thing? Because it's great. I love hearing from y'all about what you think. <3
> 
> I have a month before I go back to school for my final semester and am getting pretty busy again, so I will give you this pretty long update now and hope you will forgive me later for possibly not updating for a while. As always, remember that there is an askblog for this universe (ask-kingdombent.tumblr.com) and I will be filling some questions for it very soon, so if you are curious about anything that is not spoilery, like backstories or historical divergences between this and canon and really anything, hit me up there! Askbox is always open!
> 
> This was a long note, but as a wrap-up: thank you thank you for reading Broken Crowns and we here at Quilly Inc hope to provide you with more quality entertainment in the future! <3 <3 <3

==>Eridan: Awaken

 

You are woken up by being violently shaken and nearly clock Terezi across the face before you realize who it is waking you.

 

“Mediculler wing,” she says tersely, ripping off your sopor patch and throwing random clothes at you.

 

“What’s goin’ on?” you slur as you trip your way across your room, still half-asleep and growing more and more antsy as you become more aware. Terezi’s movements are jerky, a far cry from her usual precise locomotion.

 

“Sollux had a dream and heard a fresh voice of someone who was going to die very close to his block,” she says as she irritably does up your buttons for you and forces you out of your door. “There was an assassination attempt during the night. Feferi killed the intruder.”

 

You start awake, your fins spreading of their own accord in shock and anger.

 

“Who was the target?” you ask. “Both? Or just one?”

 

“Karkat’s blood was everywhere,” she says, and you feel your stomach bottom out. “But by the time Sollux finally woke up his pan enough to realize what was going on, they were both unconscious. We have no idea what happened, but Feferi’s pump-beat is irregular and Karkat has a raging fever.”

 

Your mouth thins and you struggle to keep yourself contained. It’s a little easier, with Terezi actually holding your hand as she pulls you along. It’s not like you haven’t been expecting this, but you allowed yourself to grow complacent and distracted. And now this. You were supposed to protect her, your pan whispers, and old, old feelings that blended into exasperated platonic affection long ago make a weak bid for attention. Since you hatched, you’ve been trained and groomed to protect the Princess. Once you’d even sketched a doomsday device you were going to launch on Alternia to make sure you would never have to worry about that particular source of danger, but Fef had talked you out of it long before your vague fantasy could become reality.

 

And Kar. You…you kind of think you have a friendship going. A hatefriendship, at least; no one who thinks Jessic and Nicoll belong together on Troll Days of Our Lives could ever be your real friend, but you have respect for him. You are not awake enough to handle this. Your fingers tighten around Terezi’s and she squeezes back.

 

It seems like everybody else has already gathered in the mediculler wing, and a good amount of hooded adult figures hover around the fringes. Sollux is sitting in a chair right by the door, hovering and half-snarling. With an apologetic twist of her mouth, Terezi loosens her hand in yours. You reluctantly let her go and are careful to spare only a glance in Captor’s direction, ignoring the hot wave of jealousy in your chest. Terezi is a grown troll and can pap whoever she wants. Not like you care. You’re supposed to be her matesprit. Her stupid secret matesprit. Her and Sollux practically flaunt their moirallegiance like it’s not against everything you talked about before this conference, but she won’t even hold your hand in front of the others, won’t even…

 

A hand on your shoulder guides you into a chair, and you look up to see a neutral-faced Kanaya. Your pump biscuit flutters. Your mind recalibrates. Your redrom life isn’t what’s important, and you can objectively see that Captor is a mess and needs her. Nevertheless, a tendril of hate winds its way through your pan. Not hot and exciting like when Nep calls you a “furricking basshole” and you make out, but sticky-sickly like tar, bubbling and just in need of a spark to set it off. You have apparently very quietly growled, because the hand on your shoulder digs in its fingers.

 

“Ow, Kan,” you say.

 

“Apologies,” she says, neutral.

 

“Kan, what’s goin’ on now?” you say, because she’s there and you need someone to talk to. You can hear beeps and fast voices on the other side of the door; you assume it’s where Kar and Fef are right now.

 

“They’re getting checked over now,” she says, sitting down in the chair next to you. “Sollux says he can’t hear their voices among the imminently deceased, which is a very good sign. They are going to live.”

 

“What happened?” you ask, because you want more details and you think maybe Kanaya would know more of them.

 

“There will be a meeting briefing all of us as soon as we’re told Feferi and Karkat are in stable condition,” she says, and says nothing more. You nibble on your lip and are appreciative of the fact that Kanaya doesn’t remove her hand, but instead slowly strokes it across your tense shoulders.

 

Aradia has breakfast brought down to all of you instead of any of you leaving. You take more notice of your surroundings rather than your wallowing as you sip on caffeine sludge. Sollux and Terezi are sitting next to the door, of course, but you are surprised to see Gamzee curled up in a tight ball on the other side of the door. Clustered on the opposite wall is Aradia, Nepeta, and Tavros, with Equius a few feet down. Vriska lounges in a chair across from you and Kanaya, dozing.

 

You lean into Kanaya’s touch, just a little, and maybe purr. Just a little. Should be weirder than it feels, but you know what, you’re still exhausted and stretched taut from worry and you can tell she’s worried, too. Her expression is faraway and distracted.

 

It is midevening before a docterrorist opens the door, and when he does Gamzee shoots onto his feet, as does Aradia and several of the others. You merely look. Vriska cuts her eyes sideways but otherwise doesn’t move.

 

“The Princess is in stable condition,” the docterrorist announces, and there is a general wave of relieved sighs. You sag against your chair, feeling weak. “However, the Scion’s fever is not breaking and he hasn’t woken up yet.”

 

“How’s Feferi?” someone asks, you’re too tired to recognize who.

 

“Awake and ravenous,” he says. “Her body is reacting as though she hasn’t eaten in several days and is as weak as if she did nonstop physical exertion for hours. She’s eating everything we can put in her hands now and will be on bedrest for several days at least.”

 

You lean back in your chair and heave another sigh.

 

“And Karkat?” Nepeta demands. “What’s wrong with him?”

 

“We haven’t been able to discern the source of his fever,” the docterrorist says patiently. “He isn’t responding to medication.”

 

“Test for poisons,” Aradia says, and the docterrorist blinks. She meets his gaze steadily, with her head held high and her mien like she expects to be obeyed, and you wondered how you forgot that for the Nation, these lowbloods are their leaders.

 

“You think he ingethted thomething?” Sollux croaks.

 

“No,” Aradia says, “I know that what stabbed him was poisoned.” She gives a wide smile that stops from being sweet by virtue of the look in her eyes.

 

“Stabbed?” the docterrorist frowns. “Lady Megido, there was no stab wound.”

 

Aradia’s eyebrows contract, and her eyes dart away to look at blank walls. Gamzee’s head snaps around to stare at her, and you realize with a start that his paint is smeared and messy.

 

“Do the test,” Gamzee says, and the docterrorist starts, swiveling around to face Gamzee.

 

“My lord Makara—”

 

“ _Did I stutter?_ ” Gamzee growls, and the docterrorist swallows. “You heard what noise our ruddy sister was making. On your table lies a troll what needs saving, for his is the miracle and the fury. Get that scan up and done before I come in there and put another body to the count.”

 

Gam’s voice is a shivery-shaky deep mass of snaps and growls. Glubbin’ shell, _you’d_ comply with that tone of voice, and you make it a point to never listen to a word Gamzee Makara says. You glance at Aradia and find that she’s regarding Gamzee with a straight, smoldering sort of look. She might as well have spades drawn on her eyes.

 

It’s a Fefism, but you’ll say it again: glubbin’ shell, what has gotten into all of you?

 

“Right away, Lord Makara,” the docterrorist says faintly. Then he shakes himself off and recovers. “Word will be sent to all of you as soon as there is word to send. I would recommend finding some place more comfortable to spend your time for the moment. It will be a long time before the results come back, and the Princess won’t be out of bed for days.”

 

“Can we come see her?” Aradia asks.

 

“Tomorrow,” the docterrorist says firmly. “She needs rest. I know it is of utmost importance to find out what happened last day, but her health is the top priority.”

 

“I will be arriving in the early morning to begin compiling my report,” Terezi says, in her snappish Spymaster voice.

 

“Me too,” Sollux says, and you try to ignore the second prickle of uncomfortable rage and jealousy welling up in you.

 

The docterrorist bows, and retreats into the mediculler’s block.

 

“Well,” Kanaya says, taking her hand off your back and standing, “you all heard the man. We’ll do no good hovering out here.”

 

You admire the way she herds all of you out of the room, even Gamzee, who snapped at her with his teeth and threatened to bite her if she made him go. What’s gotten into that idiot, honestly? She turns to look at you last of all—not a tender look, or exasperated, or even fond, but a calculating look, like someone looking at the measure of a drop before deciding to jump. You blink and it’s gone, and she holds out her hand.

 

“Shall we get something to eat?” she says, and your stomach reminds you you’ve only had caffeine sludge today and you nod. She doesn’t release your hand and you feel all fluttery and choked-up. You were woken up very early and haven’t eaten yet, so sue you for being a little tiny bit emotional.

 

You push grubpaste around your tray as you listen to the chatter. To no one’s surprise, it’s Nepeta and Vriska mostly trying to carry the conversation right now, babbling back and forth about inane things. Occasionally Terezi will interject a comment, but for the most part silence seems to reign. Finally:

 

“So who was the intruder?” Vriska asks. “Nobody’s telling me anything.”

 

“There is going to be a large meeting about it as soon as Feferi is able to give her account of things,” Kanaya says in that same patient, measured tone of voice. You get the feeling that she’s holding tightly to that control so she doesn’t snap. “But I believe that for preliminary details, Sollux and Aradia know more about this than we do.” She turns her gaze to them, sitting side-by-side, and Terezi casually scoots a few inches away from Sollux. “It would be best we heard what we can now, and use it to present a complete plan of action for approval if— _when_ —Karkat also recovers.” You definitely hear it, the strings of high emotion as she brings herself back to bear; tentatively, you reach under the table and brush her knee with your fingers. She jumps, glances at you, and then you both look away, coloring. So much for that.

 

“From what Sollux heard,” Aradia says, “and from the ghost I’ve seen, I know that the assassin, at least, is carapacian.”

 

“Black carapacian,” Sollux clarifies, and his voice is toneless. “With a thpade badge on hith chetht.”

 

Terezi goes very, very still.

 

“Spade?” Nepeta says. “You’re sure, Pawllux? A spade?”

 

“Yeah,” Sollux says, raking his claws through his hair. “I’m not thaying it’th alien athathinth…”

 

“But it’s alien assassins,” Aradia completes. “A particular alien assassin, rather.”

 

“Was he missing one of his eyes?” Nepeta asks. “With a big ugly stitched-up scar? Or an arm?”

 

“No,” Aradia says, and Nepeta breathes a sigh of relief.

 

“Just another Jack, then,” she says, and a glance around the room lets you know that you are not the only one a little bit confused.

 

“This is nice and all,” you say loudly, “but would anyone care to elaborate on the subject? For the rest a us?”

 

“Our assassin today, Mister Plumberry, is one of the many Jacks working under known carapacian crime boss Spades Slick,” Terezi says in clipped tones. “Supposedly the gang is separate from the other carapacians on the planet we are currently dealing with uprisings from, but it’s possible a carapacian could have hired Slick and his merry mob of miscreants to murder Karkat and Feferi.”

 

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Aradia frowns. “If a carapacian hired anyone to kill a troll, why go for the face of the Nation? Why Karkat?”

 

“Unless,” Tavros says, then coughs.

 

“Spit it out, Nitram,” Vriska rolls her eyes, “we’re all just _dyyyyyyyying_ to hear.”

 

He glares, then, pure platonic hatred behind his eyes. “Unless it wasn’t a carapacian who hired this Jack person at all. Meaning. Uh.” He coughs again. “It would make more sense, if it was an Empire coldblood who ordered the attack.”

 

You stand without thinking about it. “You want to make that accusation to my face, dirtblood?”

 

Of course, it’s all an uproar now, since you let your stupid mouth run away with you; Tavros goes bronze in the face, Kanaya stands, and Sollux Captor launches himself into the air with his brain.

 

“It maketh thenthe,” he says, murderously quiet. “The Jack wath killed making a break for it. He didn’t try to hurt FF at all. Jutht KK. He could have killed them both eathily,” his psionics flare up, “but he didn’t. Becauthe maybe—juthth maybe—thothe weren’t hith orderth.”

 

“So you are accusing us of breaking the treaty?” Equius says, delicately folding his fingers. His voice is also quiet and promises a bloody fight.

 

“No,” Nepeta says, interjecting herself between Sollux and Equius, “we’re just saying there’s something fishy going on here.” She glances at you when she says fishy and for once you’re not sure if she’s teasing you or not. You grind your teeth.

 

“It would be a fair assumption,” Terezi says, and she has her careless voice on, the voice she uses when she’s about to make a dangerous gamble. You clench your jaw. “Spades Slick is near the top of the Empire’s go-to associates for unsavory activities. And the focus on Karkat is suspicious.”

 

“Are you—are you admitting—?” Tavros stutters, but Terezi cuts him off.

 

“I am not. I am merely arranging the facts.” She puts her hand on Sollux’s arm, winces, and pulls her fingers away as if burned. Sollux glares at her, but stops hovering, at least; the intensity of his brainwaves dials down a little. “You are all forgetting that somehow Feferi was also hurt in this exchange, though time and Feferi herself will only tell how. How was our beloved Scion’s delicious candy-apple blood all over their bed—all over Feferi’s hands—if there was no stab wound after? How is what I suspect is a very rare carapacian poison circulating his veins without a scratch on his body? And why plan this attack now, after over a perigee of peaceful negotiation, instead of, oh, say, the very night of the quadrantlocking ceremony?” Terezi crosses her arms; she’s in full form, commanding the attention of the room without even trying. You love that about her.

 

“You’re right,” Sollux says slowly, “thith doethn’t add up.”

 

“My current hypothesis is that someone would very much like to make it look like the Empire, whether it be the clade or one of our many extraneous dignitaries, has it in for Karkat Vantas,” Terezi says. “I will need to do some digging to get to the bottom of this mire, and it will be very messy.” She tilts her head and then extends her hand to Sollux. “Now for once, will you please shut up and agree that my plans are always the best plans?”

 

Sollux rubs his face, tosses up his hand, and grabs her hand, using it to pull himself back on his feet.

 

“Thith ith a bad idea,” he says, “but our team ith your team.”

 

“And my brain is yours,” she says, and then grin at each other. Nepeta makes a little squealing noise. You pretend to vomit in your mouth.

 

“Pardon me,” Equius says, “but am I to assume that Vriska and I will be included in this?”

 

“In all technicality, Blueberry Surprise, we all will be,” Terezi says, “but the Intelligence crews specifically will be working around the clock to unearth this terrible awful biznasty.” She pats Equius on his sweaty shoulder. “I think it’s time we put all this bridge-building we’ve been doing over the past few weeks to the test, don’t you?”

 

“What about the rest a us?” you say. “Those a us without any oh-so-fancy spy networks?”

 

“That will be up to our Princess,” Terezi says lightly, “and our Scion, should he choose to wake up.” She smoothes down the front of her jacket. “Mister Appleberry, I will see you in the mediculler wing at seven o’clock sharp. Prince Eggplant, a word.”

 

You roll your eyes and follow her out into the hallway, down the hall, around a corner, behind a door, and then find yourself pressed against the wall beside the door, Terezi very intently studying your face.

 

“Eridan,” she says, and her cane is pressed up under your chin, “please, for the love of all things tacky and romantic you’ve ever sworn by, tell me you were not part of this.”

 

You gape, then scowl, then fill your aeration sacs with air.

 

Only to have your rant cut off by Terezi fiercely pressing her mouth against yours.

 

“That’s all I needed to smell,” she says, and you let her carry on for a bit longer before you need to breathe again.

 

“Then why even ask?” you say, and cup her face in your hands. “Why?”

 

“I have a terrible feeling,” she says, “that there is a traitor amongst us, and I will not suffer a traitor to live. Not even if it was you.”

 

You feel cold in the pit of your stomach, not necessarily because of her hunch. Her “terrible feelings” tend to be correct, and you guess you always knew that this merger was important to her, but you never thought she would value it more than she valued you. She sighs, pressing her face to your chest.

 

“There is nothing I love more than you, Prince Sourgrapes,” she says, and you realize that you stopped holding her when she made her last assertion. “But there are quite a few things I care about just as deeply.” She looks up, chin propped up on your chest, eyes sightless red, and you wonder, deep in your pan, if it would be so bad if she killed you. “I am your matesprit, but I am not your slave.”

 

“Why can’t we just tell them, Ter?” you say, despite yourself running your thumbs along those razor-edge cheekbones of hers. “For glub’s sake, you’ll practically shoosh Captor out in front a everybody, but you won’t so much as—”

 

It’s her fingertips on your mouth that silences you this time.

 

“He needs me,” she says, “even when others are watching.” She trails her fingers down to the slipshod buttons on the front of your shirt. “And it wouldn’t be very prudent of me to show everybody else how much I need you, sometimes.”

 

It’s not really an answer, certainly not one you want, but you think it might be an argument for another night. With the near-miss of an assassination attempt so fresh on everybody’s pans, they don’t need you wailing about quadrant drama like a six-sweep-old. You’re not actually sure what they need you for at all, you think, and sigh deeply.

 

“If you’re assumin’ that there’s a traitor on board,” you say, “you don’t really mean that it’s gonna be a free information exchange between you super-secret spies an’ the rest a us, do you?”

 

“Only with the people I know I can trust,” she says, and you thumb her chin before tilting it up to kiss her. Not one of those wild passionate ones she’s so fond of (who are you kidding, you love ‘em too), but soft, gentle, deep, slow.

 

“My moons and my stars,” you say, almost mouthing it, because it’s a pet name you reserve for very, very special occasions.

 

“Eridan,” she says back, because when she says your name like _that_ it means the same thing.

 

“Empire and Nation and Empress and insurrection,” you say as she wrestles with the buttons of your shirt. “Just the same, for you.”

 

“Why Prince Sourgrapes,” she says, “that was almost poetry.”

 

You laugh yourself stupid as you save her the trouble and rip the shirt open, scattering buttons everywhere.

 

==>Nepeta: Run Damage Control

 

You very patiently watch as Equius demolishes an entire wall with wild punches. He knows you’re in here, but hasn’t said anything. That’s cool. You don’t really feel like talking.

 

You don’t know how to think about the fact that a Jack got past all of the security that’s supposed to be in place here. Your suspicions point towards an inside job, like Tavros and Terezi said. You study Equius and wonder if it was him, if his untamed punches are expressing a rage about being thwarted rather than the same frustration and fear bubbling inside of you.

 

You lope to the training grounds when he’s beaten the wall to rubble, and barely flick your head to the side as he turns and swings. The air whistles by your ears. You can’t tell if he’s actually trying to hit you or not, but practice with Tavros and various wild fauna has given you the advantage of grace and speed. You’re not necessarily boasting; just a fact. You emulate jungle cats for a reason. Alright, maybe two reasons.

 

Also, Equius is unbalanced, his teeth actually bared, sweating like a hog, and on top of all that he’s growling, low in his throat. You see all this as you weave your way around his punches and kicks, and leap on his back, crushing his neck in between your thighs. When he tries to shatter your knees, you squeeze harder and pull his head by the horns, yanking him around and off-balance. You both fall to the dusty rocky floor in a heap. Equius is blue in the face now, and he very deliberately taps the floor.

 

You release your chokehold on his neck, but don’t move his head from your lap. He sighs instead of glares. Improvement, a part of your pan says as the rest of you aches with some deep-rooted need to find out what the furrick his problem is and fix it.

 

“The safety of everyone here was supposed to be my responsibility,” he murmurs, barely audible. “My own clade…and the lowbloods.” You tweak his horn. He sighs again. “The Nation. My apologies.”

 

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” you say, and from beneath the cracked glasses still on his face you see his eyes flick up to look at you and then back down.

 

“Regardless, a vile creature infiltrated the place I was supposed to protect. My Princess is injured.”

 

“And Karkitty,” you say. He says nothing for a long time. You wait.

 

“And…Vantas,” he agrees. “For a troll supposedly not on the hemospectrum at all…for someone who is so anomalous as to be considered freakish…he is a capable leader.”

 

“You’re freakish,” you say, but without much real reproof in your tone. You save that for the hard poke to his forehead.

 

“Must you do that,” he deadpans.

 

“Yes, I must,” you say. “Efurry time you behave like nasty casteist trash, I am going to remind you that you are much more than nasty casteist trash and need to stop.”

 

He sighs. You grin. It appears to be the fabric of your relationship, when you’re not fight-papping his feelings away.

 

“Blueblood supremacy is perhaps a faulty concept,” he accedes, and you grin even wider.

 

“But that’s not why you’re destroying purrfectly good walls,” you say. “What’s wrong, Equius?”

 

He hesitates. You take a chance and run your fingers through his hair. He snorts like a horse, blushes, but doesn’t move.

 

“I am angry,” he says. “I am angry to think that somebody could not only have outsmarted me, but put trolls I care about…could potentially care about…in danger. My carelessness is inexcusable.”

 

“So try harder,” you say, and he frowns. “No, really, listen. You being angry is good, even though it makes you break things. It means you’re going to try again and do better.” You pass your thumb across the base of his good horn and he makes a startled noise that almost sounds like a choked-off purr. “Beclaws you _can_ do better. You _can_ purrotect all of us. Or try to. Either way, you’ll do a lot more good right meow helping Pawllux and Terezi.”

 

He hesitates again, then reaches up and shifts his glasses up so you can see his face. Your pump biscuit about explodes with tenderness.

 

“You really think so,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s more like a realization.

 

You nod and smile.

 

His mouth almost breaks into something like a smile, or a grimace, or some form of emotion, and then he adjusts his head, discreetly nudging your hand.

 

Well. Who are you to say no to a thing like that?

 

==>

 

You return to your block in a post-papping haze, grinning. Even though it wasn’t you getting the paps, you feel like you’re walking on air. A voice hums in your pan that _someone neeeeds you, someone neeeeds you_. Not just someone, you think smugly. _Equius_ needs you.

 

All thoughts are driven right out of your head when you are picked up and crushed in a hug.

 

Your first instinct is to kick your mystery hugger in the stomach. Your second instinct is to bury your face in Tavros’ neck and take deep breaths of his spicy earthy scent as he blubbers into your shoulder. Sometimes you wonder if your matespritship has too many pale undertones, and then you feel the motion of Tavros’ slightly-chapped lips against your collarbone and disregard that thought.

 

You nudge him until he staggers backwards and sits on your mattress, and he holds you and continues to cry on you. You wind your fingers through his hair and hang on, occasionally kissing his ear and the side of his neck.

 

He’s overwhelmed and stressed, and you don’t fault him for that at all. When he’s all cried out, you lay him down and then snuggle up under his chin. With his horns, it’d be impossible for you to guide his head into your shoulder again and still lay down, and he needs to lie down for a while after a gut-wrenching cry like that.

 

Tavros, like Equius, takes his responsibility to protect Karkat very, very seriously. He didn’t always. And now, with Karkat fighting for life, you can only imagine how he feels. You kiss his throat for good measure. Tavros lets go a wet, shuddery sort of breath and rubs his hands up and down your back. It feels good.

 

“We’re gonna be okay,” you say softly. “He’s gonna be okay.”

 

Tavros only nods.

 

You lie there and breathe for what feels like hours, twining your fingers with his, kissing his knuckles and his fingertips and basically most parts of him you can reach besides his mouth. You’re saving his mouth for later. Eventually he exhales a long, deep breath through his nose.

 

“I am so flushed for you,” he says softly.

 

_Then_ you kiss his mouth.

 

“Flushed for you, too,” you grin, and boop his nose. “Come on. I think it’s dinnertime by now.”

 

He gently wraps his arms around you and neither of you move to leave, lazily making out and ignoring the world. It’s been a really long time since you did this. You’ve both been so busy.

 

“Nepeta,” he says finally, “he’s really going to be okay, right?”

 

You sit up a little and nod. “Sollux wouldn’t hide it from us if he was. Karkitty’s going to be fine.”

 

“Just because he doesn’t die doesn’t mean that he’ll be fine,” he says, and your smile fades. You hadn’t thought of that.

 

Then you make yourself mad thinking about it, and kiss him hard.

 

“He’s going to be fine,” you say firmly. “I know it.”

 

He lets a tiny smile work its way onto his face.

 

“Come on,” you say, and sit all the way up. “I’m hungry and I’m not eating you.”

 

He waggles his eyebrows and your face heats up.

 

“ _No_. Bad Tavros.”

 

He giggles at you all the way to the cafeteria.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for not answering everybody's comments, but I am very grateful for them. :) Unfortunately I can't answer questions yet without them being spoilery, but rest assured that some form of answer is coming!
> 
> Also, the askblog is finally getting around to answering your questions, so remember, if you have any questions for the characters about events happening now in the story, about historical divergences between this universe and canon, or just want to see some silliness to lighten the mood, that's the place to go! (ask-kingdombent.tumblr.com)
> 
> It's chapters like this that make me wish I had the energy to code pesterlogs. Oh well. Enjoy!

==>Terezi: Ruminate

 

You wait outside the mediculler wing, idly flipping through apps on your palmhusk and waiting for Sollux to arrive. You really don’t need the recording app you keep pulling up and dismissing; your memory is flawless. But for Sollux’s sake, who still needs affirmation that he can trust you, recording the conversation might be best. Besides, you need to bring some affirmation back to the others that Feferi truly is alright.

 

Sollux slouches down the hall within a few moments, and you pull the recording app back up and grin.

 

“Are you ready?” you ask, and he nods. Together you walk into the mediculler wing; out of the corner of your nose you sniff Sollux straightening, his stride lengthening and his expression focusing. It’s ever so fun to watch him put his business face on. The docterrorists part and lead you to Feferi’s block, and says something about how she seems to be healthy despite her weakness and voracious appetite. You take it in stride and walk with purpose into the room.

 

Feferi is propped up on a mountain of pillows, her hair in a loose braid and deep shadows under her eyes. But she smiles, and her fins flutter.

 

“Terezi,” she says, and reaches for your hand as you stand next to her. You let her squeeze your fingers and smile back. “Is everyone alright?”

 

“Worried, but physically, everyone is in perfect condition,” you say. “The assassin didn’t target anyone else.”

 

She releases a breath and falls back against the pillows.

 

“Thank glub,” she says, so softly you don’t think you were meant to hear.

 

“We have a few quethtionth, if you’re up for it,” Sollux says. Feferi sits back up and arranges her hands neatly in her lap.

 

“Of course,” she says. “You want to know what happened.”

 

Sollux nods. Feferi sighs.

 

“Karcrab hasn’t woken up yet, then,” she says.

 

“Not yet,” you say.

 

“I see. I hoped maybe…” she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. He isn’t awake, and I’m the only one who knows what happened. Everyone else deserves to know.”

 

Sollux nabs a chair with his brain, folding his legs to sit before the chair is fully underneath him. You scoot one up yourself and set your palmhusk on the sheets.

 

“I woke up to Karcr—Karkat, choking,” she says, and you quirk your mouth up at her slip-up. “I aimed for whatever got in our block in the dark, I didn’t expect to hit it.”

 

“You did,” you assure her. “Killed it instantly.”

 

“Who was it?” she asks.

 

“A Jack of Spades,” you say, and Feferi’s expression deepens into a scowl. “What happened next?”

 

“I tried to stop the bleeding,” she says. “He couldn’t breathe, I think he got stabbed in the chest by that—that _thing_.”

 

“How did you heal him?” Sollux asks, and Feferi looks at him, surprised. “Hith wound wath completely clothed when the medicullerth took you both in. Thomething mutht have happened.”

 

She frowns, leans back against her pillows, and chews her lip.

 

“I don’t know how I did it,” she says slowly. “I just knew I…I wanted him to be alright. Everything felt so hot all of a sudden…I can’t explain how I did it.”

 

You make a mental note to ask your source on the Condescension’s ship a few questions.

 

“Did the creature make any thort of move towardth you?” Sollux asks.

 

“No,” Feferi shakes her head. “Someone in the Empire hired the Jack, didn’t they?”

 

“Why would you think that?” you ask.

 

“Why else would they target Karkat but not me?” She smiles without mirth. “With M—with the Empress on the verge of death, there are no other fuchsia-bloods to take up the throne. The Empire would tear itself apart trying to pick a new leader. It’s much more economical to keep me alive, at least until they have a more solid succession plan worked out amongst themselves. After that, I’m quite expendable.”

 

“You are never expendable,” you say, allowing yourself this friendly moment and laying your hand on her shoulder. “Do you have any other memories of last day you want to share?”

 

She shakes her head. “I don’t remember a thing after I blacked out. I woke up here starving.” You take a good strong sniff, and taste the flakiness of her horns and boniness to her limbs under the unappetizing medical green she’s draped in. She has the health of a troll living in a bilge for several sweeps. You chew on the inside of your mouth, thinking. This is unusual circumstance, indeed. Feferi was the picture of health yesterday, even a little plump from lack of swimming lately. You’re all getting fat and lazy, you think without humor, even you. Eridan commented on the softer roundness of your hips earlier tonight and it struck you that inactivity is your biggest enemy. After the villain that tried to kill one of your hatefriends, of course.

 

“Your Highness,” you say, and Feferi straightens (so does Sollux, for that matter), “Spymaster Captor and I have made the decision to pool our resources and work to track down the perpetrator. I apologize for making the decision without you, but you were indisposed at the time.”

 

“There is no need to apologize, Spymaster Pyrope,” she says in her business voice. “As always, I expect to be kept abreast of all activities.”

 

You make a small bow from the waist. “Of course.” You pick up your palmhusk and stop the recording. “We’ll let you get some rest now.”

 

Feferi smiles and sinks back against her pillows. You and Sollux file out.

 

“Terezi?”

 

You pause in the doorway.

 

“Catch them,” she says, and looks at Sollux. “Make them pay.”

 

You have seldom heard the snap of ice in her voice and think that if she used that more often, she would have no trouble in bringing the scrounging dignitaries to heel.

 

Sollux nods and together you exit the block.

 

“I jutht want to check,” Sollux says, then hesitates.

 

You lead the way, following your nose to the other block where Karkat is being held. Together you and Sollux peer through the window (you lick the glass because you can’t really sniff through it well) at the prone troll on the bed, hooked up to wires and beeping things.

 

“Lady Pyrope,” a docterrorist says, and you jump.

 

“Yes?” you say, turning.

 

“We’ve identified the poison,” the docterrorist says, a female this time. “The folder Lady Serket forwarded to us was most helpful.”

 

“And the antidote?” you ask.

 

“Will take longer to brew than perhaps he has time,” she says, and you frown. Sollux freezes. “He is fighting hard, but the antidote takes ten days to steep to full potency. I’m not confident he has ten days.”

 

You put your hand on Sollux’s shoulder without forethought; he lurched forward with hands crooked.

 

“Is there any way to slow its crawl?” you ask.

 

“It already has, Lady Pyrope. Whatever the Princess did for him slowed it down considerably, but it is still poison and will kill him if we do not counteract it.” She takes a breath. “And it’s possible that the damage may be too extensive even if we get the antidote in his system in time.”

 

“He’th not going to die,” Sollux says, shrugging you off and turning back to the glass. “I can’t hear him. He’th not going to die.”

 

“Thank you,” you say firmly, and the docterrorist bows and leaves. Sollux’s hands are curled in tight fists, his breathing erratic. You don’t touch him, merely stand by him as his anger boils.

 

“Can’t you do thomething?” It bursts from him with more venom than you expected. “Can’t you whip up a magic potion or thome miracle cure?”

 

“You mistake me for a medical genius or a deity,” you say wryly. “I’m just a troll, Mr. Appleberry. I can’t do any more than you right now.”

 

He storms off with a contemptuous little huff that hurts you more than you thought it would. You take one last lick of the screen, then walk away, back to your block, to think.

 

You knew Vriska had a more thorough compilation of poisons than you did; that’s why you had her get in touch with the medicullers after their testing was complete, to help them interpret the results. You also knew that with as many poisons as she knows, she must have a thorough catalogue of antidotes. She’s not stupid. She poisoned herself once in a gambit to remove a seadweller who posed a threat to Feferi and mixed up her antidotes while the seadweller lay choking on his own vomit and wracked with insufferable pain. You’ve become so used to relying on her you guess you forgot she also has her limits, though you are perfectly aware of what those are, as well.

 

If there was a quicker fix for this problem, you would have found it already, and if not you, then certainly Kanaya would have. You have done all you can do, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

 

You clear away the messy belongings in your block and set up a pillow, several candles, and your favorite, faithful scalemate. Pyralspite always helps you focus better when you need to meditate.

 

You breathe and smell the warm familiar scents long ground into Pyralspite’s plushness, and begin laying out your map.

 

The facts are simple to array, because in essence they are simple: an attempt was made on Karkat’s life, a terrifyingly successful attempt that was only foiled (or, perhaps, only postponed) by an unknown force being channeled through Feferi. You doubt that force is important, since she has no idea what it was and couldn’t control it, but you add it to the list of questions you will be asking your source at your earliest convenience.

 

You don’t believe any of the clade are responsible, but haven’t ruled out the possibility of it being a Nation-sanctioned attack to cause open hostility any more than it could be an Empire-sanctioned attack to cripple their enemy. You are well aware of how flimsy the treaty is, in all actuality; only promises are holding it together now. Promises are quite easily broken. But it would be risky, very risky, for either coalition to enact directly. So perhaps a faction of radicals? The quadrantlocking had a perigee to sit on everybody’s minds before it happened; the public announcements were made mere days after the private arrangements were drawn up.

 

You know from experience it would not take two perigees to hire and contract Slick; he is easily reached and easily bought. His loyalties are to himself and to his paychecks.

 

A radical faction that would take a long time to organize because of infighting or differences of opinion…now that would take two perigees to arrange. There would have to be a detailed map of the inside of the compound provided, a sum agreed upon, a date set. The map alone suggests to you an inside job, but also the stroke of genius to kill Karkat, Karkat who has, perhaps single-handedly, been carrying the conference on his back and forcing every troll present towards true peace. Who would provide that kind of insight? Who would sell that information?

 

You’re not a mindreader like Vriska, but you don’t need to be in order to read people. She hates that about you, actually, but it’s worked to her advantage too many times for her to complain overmuch. You’ve studied and talked with and analyzed every troll present, the ones you know and the ones you don’t. You’ve observed the servants, the hooded Elders, the prancing dignitaries. A re-check will be necessary, of course, because you don’t know everything. A good poker face could fool you. Of course, conducting interrogations will help, as well, you need to make sure Vriska and Nepeta are setting that up properly.

 

You stop to think, to really explore, what will happen if Karkat dies. To make it simple, everything would fall apart; Feferi’s developing feelings for her matesprit are good, so long as Karkat lives, but if he dies, she’ll shut herself off like a clam and become implacably hard. She’ll lead her people to war, to destruction, to breaking points—or she will weaken, become too soft, pine. It’s hard to predict for certain because you’ve never seen Feferi really flushed for anyone and you aren’t sure if her feelings are strong enough to strengthen or weaken her yet. But either way she goes, the rest of the clade is predictable—chaos, fighting, possibly a war on a second front for the Empire that will not only destroy them, but open the entire troll race up for extinction at the hands of the growing rebellion.

 

You search your mind, really wrack your brains, for a way to turn it in your favor if he does happen to die—or even be too incapacitated to lead, which is more likely—but come up short. Every way you look at it, without even trying, Karkat Vantas has managed to effortlessly work his way into every troll’s good graces somehow, which you’ve been attempting to do since the start of this whole adventure. You are strange and off-putting and hard to understand, which you know. Karkat is…harsh, and honest, and brutally caring. You very much admire that about him, and then think, privately, that if Karkat dies, you will be…very, very upset. Logic will only take you so far in the face of emotional upheaval; yours will not be the greatest pain, but it will be pain nonetheless.

 

 

Karkat must not be allowed to die. That much is clear to you.

 

You open your eyes and unfold stiff limbs, hooking your husktop out from under your bed and opening up a secure chat room.

 

_W3 N33D TO T4LK 4G41N FR13ND._

 

The reply comes a few minutes later.

 

_2ure thIIng 2quIIrt. fIIre away._

 

==>Helmsman: Detect threat

 

Your name was stripped from you long ago, leaving you with a hardware brand, but yeah, on it, nookmunch, gog. You know how to do your job, name or no name.

 

You don’t bother sending your Captain the report. She’s up to the tip of her nose in medical goo right now, the latest attempt from the Imperial Mediculler team to slow her rot. Her hair has started to fall out.

 

The intruder knew the old codes to get in and is making a steady approach your way, forcing doors that didn’t open for him, killing guards in his path. You put in an executive override, reroute the guards to securing his ship instead of going after him personally, and wait to see what he wants.

 

Soon enough moldy old clown claws dig into your helmsblock doors, forcing open the locks and the mold, and he slowly wades your way, trailing Faygo and paint in the saltwater feeding your helmscolumn.

 

_you have two 2econd2 before II tell her youre here_ you say on the flashing screens behind you. Your throat is still raw from the last time you spoke. He chuckles, but Chuckles laughs at everything.

 

“Lookit you, Helmsman,” he says. “PSIIONIIC.”

 

A tendril of something coils in the gut you’ve tried to forget about. No one’s called you that for a very long time.

 

_what do you want_ you ask.

 

“Paying my last respects,” he says, “TO HIM WHAT I HELD DEAREST.”

 

You snarl, your eyes spark, you ignore the pain of the safety protocols that stopped being a deterrent sweeps ago.

 

_YOU LEFT HIIM TO DIIE_ the screens flash behind you. _YOU 2ENTENCED HIIM YOUR2ELF. WA2HIING YOUR HAND2 DOE2NT AB2OLVE YOU OF **ANYTHIING**_

 

The Grand Highblood lifts his giant hand and examines it in the half-light of the helmsblock.

 

“Show me,” he says, and you resist the OBEY protocol as long as you can before you are forced to comply.

 

The only footage left of the Iron Infidel was supposedly a grainy video some idiot took of his execution on his flip phone. You made backup files of all other known files before erasing them yourself. Not even your Captain knows you have these files still. But _he_ knows.

 

You pull up his trial and deaden yourself. It doesn’t take as much effort as it used to. The troll in chains standing his ground in the middle of a Mirthful court being ordered to recant is an ancient memory, somebody that you used to know when you yourself were somebody else. The Grand Highblood falls to his knees and clasps his hands like the most devout of cultists, and you hate him something murderous for it.

 

“Soon, beloved, all will be as you wished it,” he murmurs. “I HAVE MADE CERTAIN IT ALWAYS WILL BE.”

 

You wrinkle your nose and cut the footage.

 

_youve had centurIIe2 to make thII2 rIIght_ you say to him. _all youve done 2IInce then II2 mope and make 2mall-fry trouble for the empre22_

 

He stands, and a powerful hand snarls in your wires, twists. You choke as life support is wrenched painfully tight in its port, rocking up on tiptoes that went nerve-dead long ago.

 

“I will make all as my diamond-dust wanted,” he says quietly. There’s no anger in him, no rage, there hasn’t been for as long as you’ve been chained up here, but you see earnest fervor and something like reverence and it terrifies you more than any rage. “AND ONCE HIS VISION IS COMPLETE, I WILL KEEP ALL AS IT IS.” He lets your wires go. You slump and gasp for breath.

 

“Trolls are weak,” he says. “DEAD MEN RUIN NO PLANS.”

 

At first you think he means to kill you, but he just wades away. He’s already forgotten about you, you realize with a shudder as he shakes off the slime from your helmscolumn and looks puzzled at where it came from. He leaves the same way he came, and you know the guards down in the docking bay are in for a nasty surprise when he gets down there.

 

You shiver and run a diagnostics scan to make sure he didn’t foul anything up.

 

What on Alternia was that drivel all about?

 

Either way, you know a troll who needs to know this information. She’s a smart little wiggler; she’ll know what to do with it.

 

You snip and package the video file and send it over your secure chat room. It should still be open from your last chat, which was all of an hour ago. Then you settle in to brood as your diagnostics application continues to run.

 

Nothing on your network pinged at all; you have a little line of code that’s supposed to alert you the second anybody at that conference makes a move towards something illegal. If they so much as stream troll anime you’ll known about it (Tavros Nitram should be ashamed of himself, and technically you should be too for hitching a ride on his husktop to watch Troll Madoka Magica; you haven’t cried that much inside in a while). Nothing’s happening over there. So how did someone hire an _assassin_ without you knowing about it?

 

Obvious answer: it wasn’t anyone at the conference. If you had a way to hack Slick’s network from here, you would’ve. You suppose it’s always possible you could detach a drone, but in her current mood your Captain might take it as you leaving her, too. She hasn’t been right in the head since her fauxrail left her.

 

Without much noticing what you’re doing you pull a file from your EHEHEHE NAUGHTY folder and email it to your Captain. You like reminding her that her body is ancient and decrepit now compared to how it used to be.

 

The _Vast Glub_ has been drifting towards Alternia again for a while now. In all technicality you’re still in the middle of nowhere, but you’re closer to Alternian space than colonial outposts. At your current speed (which is: no speed at all), you might make it there in roughly eighty sweeps. Your current position in regard to Derse, the carapacian planet Slick makes his base at, is twenty sweeps at current speed. Your math is half exaggeration, but still.

 

You quietly activate a few more thrusters and steer _Glub_ towards Derse. When pressed, you will cite the Cherubic Nebula as a sight-seeing destination that happens to be between here and there; Condy likes the Cherubic Nebula, seems to think it’s the site of some ancient battle between two titanic creatures. You suppose the remains of a humongous fanged skull floating in the dust is enough, but you don’t really care.

 

Little Pyrope should be pinging you soon anyway. It’ll be nice to have something going on in the background while you talk. It’ll help you focus.

 

_1 W1LL H4V3 YOU KNOW TH4T 1T 1S 4 1N TH3 MORN1NG 4ND 1 H4D TO PULL MYS3LF OUT OF V3RY PL34S4NT CUDDL3S_

 

There she is.

 

_put IIt on my tab, you needed 2 2ee that_

_1 WOULD 4GR33. JUDG1NG BY TH3 T1M3ST4MP TH1S H4PP3N3D QU1T3 R3C3NTLY D1D 1T NOT_

_IIndeed, whats the plan of actIIon 2quIIrt_

_ON3 M3G4M3N14C4L MONOLOGU3 DO3S NOT 4N 4SS4SS1N-H1R1NG V4NT4S-H4T3R M4K3_

_close enough for me, de2pIIte the weIIrdly ob2e22IIve pale boner_

_4ND TH4T 1S WH4T CONC3RNS M3. 1 DON’T SUPPOS3 1T W4S POSS1BL3 TO PUT 4 STURD13R TR4CK1NG D3V1C3 ON H1S V3H1CL3?_

_Not wIIthout drawIIng down even more attentIIon_

_1 F34R3D 4S MUCH. SO W3 H4V3 F3W SUSP3CTS, NO SOL1D L34DS, 4ND 4 D1STR3SS1NGLY SHORT P3R1OD OF T1M3 TO 3NJOY TH3 BR13F P34C3 M1ST3R CH3RRY P13 H4S 4FFORD3D US W1TH H1S STRONG-4RM3D P34C3 P4PS._

_ergo my que2tIIon, what2 the plan tz?_

She doesn’t answer for so long you think she’s gone offline. Then:

 

_1 DON’T KNOW Y3T B4N4N4 SUPR3M3._

 

You sigh and switch off the chat yourself. Well, so much for that. You’ve been kind of Over existence for a long time. You just hoped you’d get to do some good before you died.

 

Guess that was too much to hope for.

 

(In the background, out of the whole of your attention, plays a grainy video taken on a prototype camera phone, a troll with stocky features and nubby horns grinning and laughing at the filmer, putting his hand over the lens and taking it back, _Stop messing around, Mituna—_ )


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm about to head back to school for my last semester, my lovelies, so my already effulgent updating schedule will probably bottleneck for a while. I apologize. Anyway: enjoy!

==>Aradia: Consult

 

That’s what you’re doing, yes. Conducting a séance is awfully formal, but it’s best to be gentle with the recently-deceased and respectful to the long-dead. You are summoning two ghosts this morning.

 

The first, the Jack that was killed in the line of duty. Terezi and Sollux need all the help they can get on tracking down the culprit behind the attack and you are going to get them that information. He’s the easiest to summon, since he seems to think you are something like a soul-ferry. You are content to let him think that.

 

“Mr. Noir,” you say patiently as the carapacian spits (a wad of ectoplasm splatters against the wall), “I need to ask you a few questions.”

 

He glares. “Whaddya want, girlie, I’m trying to find the light and go into it.”

 

“Answer me truthfully and you’ll find it,” you say. It might not be a lie, you don’t know. “Who hired you to kill Karkat Vantas?”

 

“Slick did,” he says, and you withhold your sigh.

 

“Who hired Slick?” you ask.

 

“I don’t know, toots, some anonymous jerk,” he says. “All’s I know is that the boss says he needs me to off some weirdo troll. I got the floor plans and the first half of my cut, and a time limit.” He crosses his legs and floats in midair. “Don’t suppose I can access that now in my afterlife, huh, honey?”

 

“The dead have no need for material things,” you say, and he spits again (really, he needs to stop; ectoplasm is the worst to get out of carpet). “Can you tell us where Slick’s hideout is? It’s important we find it and the person who hired him.”

 

“Yeah, important for you,” he cackles. “I’m dead, sweetheart. Even if I did know, I wouldn’t tell youse nothin’.”

 

You narrow your eyes, and apply a little bit of psi. Using it against ghosts can be tricky, but you’ve had lots of practice. Jack yelps and massages his bottom.

 

“He changes the hideout every week,” he whines. “I wouldn’t know where to find Slick anyway, us Jacks are all kept other places.”

 

You sigh deeply.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Noir,” you say, and banish the connection for a while. He disappears with a thin cackle.

 

Now the second ghost, whom you know isn’t really a ghost at all. But you could use her guidance.

 

It’s not very often a troll of your caste gets to meet her progenitor; in fact, you could rewrite “not very often” to “never”, because of your life span. But she’s no ordinary troll. And neither are you.

 

She appears when you call, a swirl of scarlet smoke and impressive curled horns; her hair is sleek and straight, twisted up in an elegant knot. Her high-collared sheath dress is in shades of crimson, patterned in gears and whorls. You respectfully bow.

 

“I told you only in times of greatest danger,” she says in a voice like silk.

 

“Would I break that promise for anything else?” you reply, raising your eyes to hers. Your eyes went maroon a sweep or so ago; hers have the deep burgundy of age, fringed in impressively long lashes. You have always thought she was beautiful and are proud to be her descendent, even if you know you will never have her lean looks. “I need your help.”

 

She looks around, and you hear the faint ticking of clocks.

 

“Yes,” she says, “I suppose you are justified.”

 

She kneels, dainty like a doll, and folds her hands.

 

“What do you need?” she says. “I will do what I can.”

 

“Two days ago, Karkat was nearly murdered,” you say. “The suspicion is that an Empirical troll ordered the attack. I need to know who is behind it.”

 

“That is information I cannot give away,” she says. “It is important to that troll’s destiny for anonymity to be preserved at this time.”

 

You frown. “But—”

 

“I will tell you,” she says gently, “that you have done well to guard your heart thus far, but trust will be imperative if you and your cohorts are to succeed in this.”

 

You lower your eyes. It’s useless to try to wrangle information out of her that she doesn’t want to give. She protects her knowledge of all events future and past jealously.

 

“There’s one more thing,” you say, and feel slender fingers tilt your chin up.

 

“I will do what I can for him,” she says, “but in the end, it may come down to you, little one.” You blink back tears and smile wanly.

 

“Thank you.”

 

You feel her lips on your forehead like a brand, and then in a chime like a clock striking twelve she’s gone.

 

Well, that was a bust.

 

You get up and extinguish candles, padding towards the door and pulling on a thin robe over your pajamas. You could use a snack.

 

The windows are all bolted and everything is quiet as you make your way down to the nutrition block, intent on a fluffergrub sandwich. You hear movement in a block one hallway away and pause, listening. It sounds like a wrench.

 

You peek in through the crack in the door, and see a sliver of bare troll back slicked in blue sweat. For a moment, that’s all you can see. Then you notice the tied-up smooth hair, the broken horn, and, yes, you were correct, a wrench tightening a bolt on a robot.

 

You hesitate, then push the door open gently, knocking on the door jamb. Equius jumps, snapping the head off the nut he was tightening.

 

“Aradia,” he says, and reaches for a towel as he slides his goggles back down over his eyes. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

 

“I could ask you the same question,” you say, and for a moment unabashedly appreciate Equius’ musculature. “Seems a little late for building robots.”

 

He glances behind, looping the towel around his neck and adjusting his gloves.

 

“I am repurposing them,” he says. “Our security is negligible.”

 

The unspoken promise in his voice surprises you.

 

“I figured you would leave it alone,” you say. “Seeing as how we’re all so much lower than you.”

 

You wait. Equius opens his mouth and closes it again. His cheeks turn faintly blue.

 

“I am being persuaded that I was mistaken in that belief,” he says. “Nep—that is—lowbloods have their uses. And. Are perhaps not so uncultured and filthy as I have been…lead to believe.”

 

Ah. So it’s Nepeta’s work. You make a note to congratulate her on her progress, then think to yourself, why not help her along?

 

You slide up to Equius and adjust his towel. He visibly swallows.

 

“Kanaya and I are looking to visit a nearby village to find some new reading material,” you say. “Perhaps you’d like to join us?”

 

His jawline really is quite pretty, you think as he opens and closes his mouth. And him getting so flustered is adorable. You can overlook the sweat problem.

 

You smile and turn on your heel.

 

“Just something to think about,” you say as you walk away. Once safely sequestered in the privacy of your block you lean your head against the wall.

 

“What am I even doing,” you groan. You never would have pegged yourself for the flirty type.

 

Then again, it’s not like you’re propositioning everything on legs, like Feferi says Eridan used to. You have three specific targets and you’re going for them.

 

Four, you correct yourself as you picture Feferi lying unconscious in her mediculler bed. You have never ached so badly in your heart for someone else’s suffering, not since you and Sollux called it quits. You want as much assurance from her that she’s okay as you want to tell her yourself. You want her shoulders to relax and her confidence to increase. If that isn’t the palest sentiment you’ve ever had, you don’t know what is.

 

And regarding Equius…you told Kanaya that you wanted them both, and you will stick by that. You’ve been desperately flushed for her for sweeps, and want to see his softer side in more abundance. Who’s the kinkiest lowblood? It’s you.

 

You finish your sandwich and climb into bed. It’s early meetings tomorrow evening; you’re going to need your strength.

 

==>Feferi: Ask

 

You’re feeling stronger tonight, so you have the mediculler team help you into a wheeled sitting device and scoot you into one of the many rooms with a broadcasting grub. You have your personal assistants brush your hair and dress your top half as professionally as you can stand. Your lower half is still in loose medical green pants but also hidden under the table, so it doesn’t matter.

 

You make the call once the room is empty.

 

Your ancestor sputters into life on the screen, and croaks a laugh when she sees you. You flutter your fins and widen your eyes in shock.

 

She’s shaved her head. Her hair’s just…gone. And her skin is tinged a sallow, sickly pink. Sores are beginning to crawl up her neck. Her gills are encompassed by a breathing apparatus that looks like water-filled bubbles just behind her ears. Her fins look ragged with latticed blisters. A secret dark whisper curls in the base of your neck and says she doesn’t have very long at all now.

 

“Sup, gill,” she says, and coughs. Her fist comes away with tyrian smudges. “Heard you almost died.”

 

“Yes,” you say. “I wanted to ask you something.”

 

“How you saved him,” she says, and you nod, a little surprised she knows so much. Where did she hear that information? “Tuna told me.”

 

Well. It would make sense that her Helmsman would keep her informed. But who told…? It doesn’t really matter. It’s probably public knowledge by now anyway. The Elders are sending an envoy within a few hours.

 

“Just a fun little quirk we got, gill,” she says. “How’d you think Tuna lasted this long?”

 

“The whispers,” you say, and hesitate.

 

“What I always told you. Whispers and glubs of them alike what once suckled me, before that douche Summoner killed Mom,” Meenah says with a little cough in-between. “Horrorterrors of the deepest crooks of space. Cosmic beasts what’ve watched over me and what stopped me from squashin’ your grub butt like jelly.”

 

You feel a cold coil in your stomach but it’s comforting, somehow.

 

“Saving his life almost killed me,” you say. “How do I control it so that doesn’t happen again?”

 

“Gotta practice,” she shrugs. “Your dealie works different from mine. Mine, I stole pump-beats from lesser trolls and gifted it to my Helmsman. You, looks like, you take from your own guts. That’s a lesson you’ve gotta learn on your own.”

 

You sit back in your chair and sigh slowly.

 

“You look awful,” you say.

 

“Don’t got much time left,” she replies. “Figure that red-eyed devil will be coming for me soon.”

 

You furrow your brow and she gurgles through a laugh.

 

“The reaper’s got a hot butt, though,” she says, and laughs again. “Listen, Feferi. I ain’t never believed in you. But now that life’s gettin’ taken out of my claws, I reckon it’s time I started trusting my own blood.” She looks, oddly intent, at the camera. Right at you. “Trust no one. The Empire is yours by blood, the Nation yours by right. Sometimes you gotta pay the price in blood for what’s yours.” She sits back, too. “Ask yourself the use of friendship when they’re all dead, gill.”

 

The video clicks out, and you let yourself get wheeled back to your bed. You’re ready to lay down for a while now.

 

The medicullers have explained Karkat’s situation, and you’ve seen the clades in and out for days, visiting him, visiting you. It’s only been three nights but it feels longer. The antidote has seven left to brew, but you know Karkat has five.

 

And still Sollux hasn’t heard his voice among the dead, and you wonder if it’s because you do something—if you can do anything. You reach for the whispers, ask them questions, and hear a firm **_no_ ** in response.

 

You chew your lip and fall into fitful sleep. Not even the lullabies of voices long dead can help you now.

 

==>Ghost: Do what you can

 

You are not a ghost, although you slip through time like one.

 

You are here on behalf of your little one who is dear to you, and study the face of the Scion of Suffering as he sleeps. His skin is waxy and drawn, doused in sweat, and his breathing is labored. By your clock, he has one hundred and sixteen hours, forty-five minutes, and twenty seconds and counting. Your clock is the most correct.

 

You gently touch his arm, and swimming into existence opposite you is the square face and warm scarlet eyes of your worst task.

 

“I’m doing what I can for him,” the Sufferer says. “If it were any other affliction of the blood it would be simple.”

 

“It’s not his own body’s doing,” you say quietly. “The little princess did much.”

 

The Sufferer quirks a grin. “Go figure.” He watches as you smooth your fingers through his descendant’s fine, curly hair. “You can’t reverse this.”

 

“I cannot,” you say. “No one can. It must be cured.”

 

“He doesn’t have time,” he says, and looks at you. “Can you do something about the antidote?”

 

“I can give it an extra day’s potency,” you nod, “but it will still pass just shy of his body’s endurance.”

 

The Sufferer’s face is one of deepest sorrow. You sympathize.

 

“Can anything else be done?” he asks, quietly.

 

“That will be up to the child’s friends now,” you say simply. “They have more power than they realize. More power than any of us dreamed of.”

 

“Given that I’m a ghost living in his blood and you’re a phantom of time, I think that’s saying something,” the Sufferer laughs. “What will push them?”

 

“Karkat has done his job beautifully,” you say. “The question will have to be if the bonds he has forged will be strong enough to sing for those who can help him the most right now.”

 

“And in the future?” he asks. You say nothing. “It’s not exactly a picnic they’re walking into.”

 

“I have faith in them,” you say. “Millenia of time has passed before my eyes. They are the culmination of everything I have ever worked for.”

 

Karkat shifts, murmurs in his sleep. You and the Sufferer fall silent and watch him struggle. Almost his eyes flutter open, spotted orange in the sclera, and then he falls back against his pillows, breathing a little heavier than before. The Sufferer laughs, ruffles his hair.

 

“Brave little guy,” he says, all affection.

 

“Brave as a knight,” you say. “He will be well, Kankri.”

 

The Sufferer does not answer, but begins to fade. You turn to exit.

 

“Damara.”

 

You turn back.

 

“I’ll see you when this is over,” he says, meaningful, and fades away. You quirk your mouth and slip sideways into another flow of seconds, into a waterfall of ticking clocks, away to pay a visit to another troll who will need your prodding.

 

Yes, you muse, soon it will all be done. A beautiful rest will wait for you then.

 

There is work to be done now.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! School is going awful, which for some reason conversely corresponds to how productive I am when working on fic. Weird. But here's the next chapter, hope it'll hold you for a little while; this one ended up being way more emotionally charged than I thought it was going to be, so I hope y'all like it. Enjoy! <3

==>Equius: Attend outing

 

You have slept little the past few days, working on your latest security system. It’s not finished yet; you would like Captor’s opinion on your program work, though you are still working up the gumption to ask. You aren’t sure how to categorize your emotions regarding the lowbloods as of now. Once you thought—you knew—it was a regal disdain, impatience with having to deal with those so completely below you. With Nepeta’s voice in your pan every time you make a disparaging thought, you feel it more closely resembles the…fear…that used to categorize your interactions with your fellow clademates, before you came to know them.

 

And now you are fretting over what to wear like an adolescent, on an outing you are not certain why you are attending. Perhaps it’s because you’ve always appreciated beautiful things, and despite their differences Aradia and Kanaya are both quite beautiful. The lines of Aradia’s biceps alone…but no, you must stop, because if you think too much about silly things like biceps and long noses and elegant curves of neck you will sweat.

 

A knock at the door. You gently, if hurriedly, pull on a jacket and answer it. Kanaya is in the doorway, a basket in the crook of her arm.

 

“Are you ready?” she asks. You nod and close the door behind you. Kanaya hesitates, then reaches up to smooth the collar of your jacket down. You clear your throat and place your hands in your pockets.

 

The outing is no doubt to distract them from their fallen comrade; you have heard the prognosis for Vantas and it was not cheering. Occupied as you have been, you have not been privy to the little discussions among the clades, but you have heard of the legendary fit Nepeta threw when the docterrorists began to discuss ending Vantas’ life more kindly than suffering through an excruciating pain for days and just barely missing the antidote’s healing powers. Her loyalty to Vantas is admirable, but you privately think the docterrorists’ practicality more reasonable. Not that you would say that to her, as she sobbed her heart out on your chest and made your blood-pusher feel about ten sizes bigger. The time will come, you think, when you will have to…to…make it official, to use Vriska’s terminology. When serendipity happens, it certainly _happens_.

 

Aradia is waiting in the garage—or vehicle storage block, Nation vernacular is strange—with an understated land rover ready to go. She winks at you. You must do your best to not crush anything as you situate yourself carefully in the miniscule backseat. A small, enclosed space, with Kanaya and Aradia? This has “bad idea” stamped on it in block letters. You would be foolish to continue to go along with it.

 

And yet, and yet, you think as Aradia revs the engine.

 

The village is a mere half-hour away, and charming in a rustic sort of way. You prefer the cold steel and smooth lines of an Empirical settlement station, how everything on a floating ship in space clicks together like clockwork, precise, mechanical, clean. The village is curves and ragged edges, mud and cobblestones, and it hums like a living creature. It’s strange.

 

“Stick close to us,” Aradia says, and loops one of her arms through yours. On your other side Kanaya does the same, and together they steer you through the crowd. You are grateful for their assistance, but their presence does not diminish your discomfort at being touched by so many strangers at once. The bazaar is thrumming with business, livestock loud in the distance, electrical lights swinging overhead like mobile stars. In your nose mingles the stink of troll and the spice of food you’ve never dreamed of, perfumes and harsh rubber. You swallow and taste it all, in the back of your mouth. You hear music and shouting and lusii bellowing while their wigglers point sticky fingers at candy grubs.

 

Your senses are swept away; your body is being guided to a bookstore, tucked away on a corner in between a crowded restaurant and a hardware store. You spy a collection of miniature screwdrivers you would like to examine later as you are swept into the bookstore.

 

Inside is dusty and surprisingly quiet as the bustle of outside is muffled by what you see, after a moment’s adjustment, is a wall-to-wall continuous stack of books. You blink and feel your jaw loosen in shock as you stare around. Aradia and Kanaya unhook their hands from your arms and you stand, rooted to the spot. You have never been a terribly great reader outside of “supernatural” and equine fiction, but if anything would spark a hunger in you, this certainly would.

 

“I think I have something you would enjoy,” Kanaya says, and you dumbly walk towards her voice, still absorbed in the collection around you. How this place hasn’t gone up in flames you don’t think you will ever fathom. It takes you a few seconds to understand that Kanaya is showing you a towering stack of rainbow drinker fiction. You know many of the titles from when you were laid up with troll mono, but most are foreign to you.

 

“I think I would recommend this one especially,” she says, and carefully eases out a thick volume. You see immediately why she would think of you; the cover depicts a large blueblood a few shades off from your own hue, with a magnificent hoofbeast herd in the background. You numbly wrap your fingers around it and incline your head, then flip open the cover to read the introduction.

 

You are lost in the story of Yquuse Vacula and his desire to overcome his bloodlust so that he may once more train hoofbeasts with his matesprit until a hand touches your arm.

 

“Equius?” Aradia says, and you jump a little.

 

“Yes?”

 

“We’re ready to go now,” she says, and you nod and shuffle up to the counter. You are not leaving without this book.

 

“I’m paying,” Aradia says, and you open your mouth to protest, but Kanaya plucks the book out of your hands and you close your mouth again.

 

The books are rung up by the feeble green-blooded shopkeep, who tips you a nervous smile when you glance at him. His smiles for Aradia and Kanaya are quite warm, however; their chatter is friendly and familiar.

 

“Y’all come back an’ see us soon, y’hear?” the shopkeep says in a reedy thin voice as you exit back out onto the street. Once again Aradia and Kanaya take your arms, and you allow them to. You are still a little dazed, but have the wherewithal now to shake the dust from your eyes and really keep a lookout for any trouble, as you once again neglected to do on the way in, will you never learn? In a place like this, all three of you are terribly vulnerable.

 

Kanaya lingers by a jeweler, and you skim the array; the Nation favors copper and rough-cut gemstones rather than the more refined, elegant gold and jewels of the Empire, but you see as you look closely that they have a beauty to them that, while unfamiliar, is fierce and bold. They are all in shades of ochres and greens, with a few tawnies and clay-reds. No blues, but that is to be expected. The preening ladies of this booth notice you and whisper together. You don’t much care what they are saying, but after a moment, the plumper of the two clears her throat.

 

“Sir, I believe we may have something more suited for you in the back,” she says, and nudges her companion, who scurries into the tent behind.

 

“Please, that’s not necess—” you stammer, but the shorter troll is already back, with a wide slender black case. She opens it, and you see purples and blues and higher greens of the same unpolished gems, beautifully worked into more delicate patterns of copper and bronze. The warmer metals do lend a certain sparkle to the colder colors, you think to yourself, and then wonder if Nepeta would deign to wear something like this for you. Unlikely; she is a no-frills sort of troll, her only decoration a tiger’s-eye bead bracelet from her matesprit. That’s plenty for her.

 

You glance askance at Kanaya, who is cooing over the bluer gems, then at Aradia, who is looking at the pair of you with a smirk, and your throat dries up.

 

“Lovely,” you grunt, “but I’m not buying today.”

 

You’re not sure if it’s relief or disappointment in the vendors’ faces, but you are certain you imagined Kanaya’s brief pout as the box is taken away. There is plenty of jade and maroon before her, what would she want the blue for?

 

You also stop at a fabric vendor and at a seedy little booth selling animal bones, and then remember the miniature screwdrivers just as you are about to leave. You open your mouth to mention them, then close your mouth again. You have a book. That is plenty.

 

“Is there anything else you wanted to look at, Equius?” Kanaya asks.

 

“Can’t have your first time in a Nation village be a disappointment,” Aradia laughs, and you shift your weight.

 

“I have seen all I need,” you say, and then think you should word it better. You don’t want to stutter by backtracking, but perhaps if you… “It is…strange, down here planetside. Very strange.”

 

“Strange bad?” Aradia wheedles as you squeeze back into the land rover.

 

“I did not say that,” you say.

 

“Well, I had fun,” Aradia says as Kanaya shuts the door behind her and passes your book back. “Kanaya?”

 

“Oh yes,” she says, rearranging her stack of fabrics in her lap. “We should do this again sometime.”

 

Again? Surely she doesn’t mean with you lumbering behind like a lout, scaring shopkeepers and offending booksellers.

 

(You realize, in a small part of your mind, that that’s what unsettles you most about these lowbloods, these Nation trolls, because you have been taught your whole life of your superiority, shown your biological advantages time and time again, and yet all of that means nothing to them, means nothing when Kanaya smiles, means nothing when Aradia touches your shoulder to draw your attention…)

 

“I agree,” Aradia says, and the both turn in unison to look at you.

 

“I—I would enjoy…doing this…again,” you manage to stammer. Aradia turns with a grin. Kanaya looks at her for a long time, and you are certain you aren’t meant to see her expression, the soft tenderness there.

 

Then she looks back at you again and it’s…measuring. Like she means to dress you with her gaze. Or…or perhaps…just the reverse.

 

Aradia revs the engine again and you blaze into the early morning.

 

Back at the compound, you hear a slight fuss amongst the mediculler staff en-route to your block about the antidote needing less time than they thought, but the understatement there is still that Vantas doesn’t have enough time, not enough time. You feel, for the first time, a genuine regret for that. Not regret for anyone else’s sake, but for your own, that you did not take the opportunity to study Vantas and his leadership more closely, see how his influence changes the trolls around him.

 

You are a sweaty weirdo. You are no leader. You are not a Spymaster or a Captain of the Guard or a Highblood. You build robots and pass judgments on things you have no real knowledge of. In essence, you are nothing. No one relies on you. No one would worry about you if you ceased to exist. Your Princess and their Scion are a different matter.

 

Significantly less…something-approximating-happy…now, you go to open your block door.

 

“Equiuuuuuuuus!”

 

You sigh and continue opening your door. Vriska slinks under your arm. You carefully arch it over her head and enter your block.

 

“You’ve been gone all night,” she complains as you array your new book on your nightstand. “Where were you?”

 

“Out,” you say. “What do you want?”

 

“Bored,” she says, and flops on your bed. “Entertain me.”

 

“I am not a barkbeast to leap for your amusement,” you say, but in mild tones. It’s not that you despise Vriska’s company; indeed, you’ve done your best to keep her as far out of trouble as you can since it became apparent she would really only listen to you if you stated your case logically enough. A wild link like Vriska could weaken the entire clade in ways none of you can afford; particularly now, keeping her away from Nitram is key. If occupying her so she does nothing foolish for the time being is your lot in life, you will accept it.

 

Besides, she could always use more culture in her life.

 

“Anything but that musclebeast documentary,” she says, and you allow her to invade your personal space as you lean against your headboard and reach for the remote to the television. You do not, however, let her take the remote control. Musclebeast documentaries will be good for her.

 

You will let her put on one of her pirate movies later, so she will forgive you.

 

==>Tavros: Receive news

 

You wake up with someone shaking you.

 

“Come on, Tav,” Aradia says, and you yawn and rub your eyes.

 

“Wha’s goin’ on?” you say sleepily.

 

“Early meeting,” she says, and smooches your forehead. She’s always doing weird things like that; it’s how she shows affection, apparently. “The Elders are here.”

 

You bolt out of bed and struggle into your pants, almost pitching forward onto the floor when you try to pull your pants up with one hand and peel your sopor patch off with the other.

 

“Official gear,” she says, and you look at Aradia in confusion. She’s in her beaded red sheath dress, so it must be true; she hates that thing. Her hair is strung with beads and chains, so clearly Kanaya’s been at her, as well. You sigh, take your pants back off, and go to pull out the stiff uniform from your clothing block.

 

Aradia helps you tie the red sash around your waist and holds out the short jacket for you to shrug into, then holds out the nose ring with the ruby set in it for you to slip on. You run a comb through your hair and then rub your eyes again to make sure you’ve gotten all the sleep out of them.

 

“Gorgeous,” Aradia says, and you snort.

 

You meet up with Sollux on the way down to the conference room, adjusting his jumpsuit around his nethers and wincing.

 

“Rough day?” Aradia asks, and Sollux flips her off.

 

“The zipper got thtuck,” he says in a quiet, mortified voice, and out of respect for his mood you keep your laughter to a series of silent chuckles. “It’th been a while thinthe I’ve had to wear thith thtuff.”

 

All snickers and ribbing cease as you approach the conference room; Kanaya and Nepeta are already waiting. You very much want to slip your hand around Nepeta’s but don’t dare, this close to the Elders. Her tiger’s-eye bracelet is still on her wrist, though, which surprises you. She winks, and that’ll have to do for now.

 

You all file in silently, and once in your customary lineup, bow at the three elderly trolls already sitting at the head of the conference table. Payter Simune, Daryus Markus, and Zhudis Karite are the highest-ranking Elders in the Council and it genuinely surprises you to see all three. Usually they don’t all attend to business as one; they usually go alone or take teams of two or three when they need to run errands among the Nation. For all three to be here…

 

“Hello, children,” Daryus says, the most soft-spoken of the three, and out of reflex you smile back at his gentle expression. Payter inclines her head; Zhudis merely scowls. Or does something approximating a scowl, he hasn’t actually dared to have an angry look since Karkat once reamed him a new one over always having that expression whenever all of the clade was called to the Council.

 

“We came as soon as we could,” Payter says, more authoritative. “Have a seat. Tell us what happened.”

 

As one you all sit, but the telling of the story is left to Kanaya, who has the steadiest voice when she speaks about what happened. Zhudis’ face gets even more sour; Daryus puts his hand over his mouth; Payter pales, but keeps her hands still and folded until Kanaya is done speaking. Then she reshuffles her fingers restlessly.

 

“I see,” she says. “This is very grave. And the outlook…?”

 

“Not good,” Sollux says.

 

“We will take this into consideration as we plan for what to do in the future,” Payter says, almost musing to herself. “Thank you for giving a full account, Kanaya.”

 

Kanaya inclines her head. You discreetly try to scratch where the over-embroidered pants are starting to itch at your waist.

 

“We bring news,” Zhudis says, “of what is transpiring in the Nation as of right now.”

 

You sit up a little straighter; you’ve wondered how far the news has spread, how it’s affecting your people.

 

“It’s widely known as of now that the Scion is suffering from a serious wound,” Zhudis says, “and the most common theory is that the Empire has violated the treaty and double-crossed us. The hows and whys vary, but reigning theory is that the Princess stabbed him as he was sleeping.”

 

Your mouth thins. Beside you, Aradia’s fists clench.

 

“A petition is circulating some of the more populated cities to declare war on the Empire,” Zhudis continues. “And we’ve received reports that some more prolific hackers have already begun stringing together half-baked ~ATH codes for viruses to attack the Empire settlement ships’ life support systems.”

 

“~ATH wath wiped when the Nation declared independenthe,” Sollux objects. “Where did they—?”

 

“I assume from the same place you did at six sweeps old, Lord Captor,” Zhudis says dryly. Sollux colors. “Though with a few more disturbingly complete templates than were in existence even four sweeps ago.”

 

Sollux bows his head and doesn’t speak. Zhudis looks at him with what appears to you to be triumph and you feel a stir of annoyance in your guts, so close to the surface these days thanks to Vriska’s meddling.

 

“But none of them have been successful?” Aradia asks.

 

“Not as of yet,” Payter says. “We’ve already issued a statement saying any Nation citizen who performs any physical or virtual act of violence against the Empire will be facing hefty criminal charges.” The knot in your shoulders relaxes somewhat, though out of the corner of your eye you see Sollux still hasn’t moved.

 

“That’ll only hold them off for as long as the Scion is still alive,” Zhudis says. “We need a plan ready for when that no longer becomes a possibility.” The certainty and dismissal in his voice brings you to your feet, but Nepeta’s hand on your wrist stops you from saying anything rash. The Elders look at you, and you swallow your rant and sit back down.

 

“We need time to discuss the information and put together a plan of action to present to you,” Payter says gently. “Go change and get breakfast. We will summon you when we are ready.”

 

You are the first out the door, Nepeta on your heels.

 

“Tavros—”

 

“What was the point, then,” you say savagely, wrestling with your short jacket and probably tearing some beading loose, “of making us wear this—this—stupid stuff?”

 

You realize that it’s not just Nepeta; everyone is following you back to your block, for some reason. Fine by you, you guess. It’ll just be a little weird. The potential awkwardness of the situation doesn’t stop you from slamming open your door and throwing the jacket down on the bed, along with the nose ring, and start grappling with the sash. The others file in after, and Kanaya, last in, closes the door.

 

“Tavros,” Nepeta says again, and you have the sense to stop swinging your horns wide and hold still as she works on undoing the sash herself. “You know they’re only trying to help.”

 

“And they’re doing a dumb job,” you grump.

 

“I’m with TV on that one,” Sollux says moodily, collapsing into one of your chairs. “What—what wath even the _point_ …” he trails off and puts his head in his hands.

 

“What’s always been their point,” Aradia says, sitting on your bed. “Keeping us in line while trying to pretend we have any real say.”

 

Nepeta finishes with your sash and you sit down on your bed, as well, Nepeta beside you holding your hand. Kanaya sits on the floor, halfway between the bed and Sollux’s chair.

 

“What are we going to do?” you ask in a small voice. “Seeing as…seeing as…”

 

“He’th _not going to die_ ,” Sollux mutters, almost murderously, from his chair. “He’th _not_.”

 

“I don’t see why we can’t do what we’ve been doing for the past perigee now,” Aradia says, and you all look at her.

 

“We’ve been making all sorts of decisions on our own,” she says. “No Elders yanking our chains, drawing lines for us to follow…it’s been down to us. Don’t you think it’s weird, how quiet they’ve been about the whole situation?”

 

“I pawt it was weird,” Nepeta says. “They didn’t so much as email us fur details.”

 

“I assumed that part of that was the servants keeping them informed,” Kanaya says, “but now that you mention it…yes, it does seem odd. Why now, when Karkat’s life is in danger, are they speaking up?”

 

It brings up a dark question, one you don’t like in the slightest. Aradia has been more vocal than usual lately about the ridiculousness of the Council in some respects, but you didn’t much want to listen to her about it until tonight. You thought she just meant in the quadrant way, but now that you’re paying attention, you see she meant a wider range of decisions. Maybe every decision. Maybe grooming Karkat to fulfill his ancestor’s footsteps in every way—

 

“Tavros,” Aradia says, and you jerk out of your reverie. “They’re going to want to put you up for leadership next. Are you prepared to deal with that?”

 

You stand and walk away a little pace, rubbing your eyes wearily. This is the ghost of a possibility that’s been hanging over you your entire life. It’s no secret to you that you are expected to play second fiddle to Karkat in every aspect of your life. You started suspecting it when you were wigglers and saw how much more attention the Elders paid to him than to you. It’s not like you wanted the attention, but sometimes you would clutch Tinkerbull to your chest and try to parse how you felt about the extra praise he would get on his sub-par scythe forms than you would on your near-perfect lance tilts. When you started noticing that Nepeta was cute and funny, you also noticed how she drank in Karkat’s every word. When you thought you had a better plan of action, Karkat’s was the one chosen.

 

But you also saw how Karkat’s excursions were more severely punished. You also saw how Karkat would take the fall for one of Aradia’s mistakes in judgment, how he would at least try to talk Sollux out of a dark mood even if he didn’t succeed, how he would speak loudest for you when you were paralyzed with fear. It took you an embarrassingly long time, a long time when you were sure you hated Karkat Vantas for getting everything you wanted and being everything you wanted to be, but you can say it now with pride that you would follow him to the ends of the universe.

 

To finally have what your childhood self always wanted…to have your plans listened to for a change, your voice heard, your talents praised…

 

To hell with it. You never wanted to get it like this.

 

“Over my dead body,” you say, and turn back around. “We should…we should change. And eat. When the Elders want to talk…we need to…uh…” you swallow hard, beat back your heavily-beating heart and call up your courage. “We need to have our own plan of attack.”

 

You look uncertainly at the surprised faces around you, then take warmth from the smiles that erupt. Nepeta lopes from the bed to in front of you, takes your face in her hands, and makes you lean down to kiss her.

 

“We’re with you on this,” Kanaya says, and Sollux nods. You smile weakly.

 

_You’d better get better,_ you say silently to a nebulous Karkat that might be listening. _I’m only sitting on your throne for a little while._


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was too excited to wait another week to post this. Unfortunately, posting this uses up the last of my complete material, and with my class schedule being IDIOTIC like it is, not sure when I'm going to get another free moment, but I always say that so don't y'all fret. Just do me a favor and keep the comments coming; they really do help me find the strength to continue this nutty thing. Enjoy! <3

==>Gamzee: Wander

 

That is all you been up and doing since the wretched heathen what tried to kill your—tried to kill Karkat got in.

 

You gotta own that half is you mooning; he told you to talk to him, told you in all indirectness that you’re worth something better, and you are singing praise to you-don’t-even-know for that. And then some alien brother gonna up and TAKE THAT FROM YOU?

 

He is pallid and soaked with sweat, eyeballs roving behind fluttering lids, and you ain’t left the outside of his mediculler block in five hours. Your stomach is a-grumble. Your spirit is sick. You can’t watch him…can’t…you need some air.

 

You hear voices what are shouting on the way to the nutrition block and segue down to listen; you ain’t alone, neither, seems like the rest of the clade what ain’t Feferi is all out there, too. Warmbloods should be inside where the shoutin’ all up is, then.

 

“—out of time,” a voice unfamiliar and patient-like says. “As much as it pains all of us to admit it, the Scion of Suffering is due to draw his last breath soon. We cannot be a disorganized rabble when that happens.”

 

“And I’m telling you,” Sollux says, you can hear the sizzle in his voice, “that he’th gonna be _fine_.”

 

“There are matters we need to discuss aside from the new chain of command,” another voice, more harsh what you dislike all a sudden, says. “Such as the rampant disobedience going on here.”

 

Vriska snorts but don’t look too amused. Eridan got a jaw all clenched up and Terezi is scowling. You tilt your nug back and listen.

 

“What rampant disobedience?” Kanaya says, mild like milk. “We have been more than successful in negotiating the terms of our alliance, have we not?”

 

“This is not about the alliance,” harsh voice snaps. “This is about the _whoring_ going on between all of you and the Empire! The quadrants symbolically arranged were not dismantled when the Scion was promised to the Princess, and yet I’ve heard reports all over of canoodling—”

 

Out here in the hall, your smirks all around are hard to contain, but fade right quick as a heavy something slams into a solid something.

 

“Are you _kidding me?_ ” Aradia shouts, and though on the one hand you’d love to hear her get taken down a peg or six, right now your cranium’s all chanting _go get ‘em baby girl unleash hell_.

 

‘sides, you don’t like the harsh voice and it’s hot as all seven hells when Aradia shouts.

 

“Lady Megido, please contain—”

 

“ _Shut up!_ ” she yells. “Look, maybe it was alright to force your little fantasies on all of us back before we knew any better—and it definitely wasn’t—but you can’t play with people’s lives like that! You can’t expect us to reenact your stupid script, because we’re not the same people our ancestors were!”

 

“The quadrants were arranged for a reason,” harsh voice says, all cold. “You are all the blessed descendants of our culture’s greatest heroes. The Second Coming has been preached far and wide. Our people expect to see a new age of peace and prosperity, as when your predecessors ruled—”

 

“You’re forgetting your history,” a quiet voice, what’s it…Tavros?...says. “The Sufferer never—never actually ruled anything. And. Most of our ancestors’ quadrants were either empty, or, actually, filled with outsiders.”

 

Vriska smirks again. Equius nudges her with his elbow and she quiets right on down, though her eye is affixed to the door.

 

“We are aware,” patient voice says. “In the interest of this treaty we have had to make a few sacrifices. However, we did not intend for one of those sacrifices to be the image we’ve been cultivating to the public for so long.”

 

“What about Karkat’s life?” Nepeta asks. “Were you _planning_ on sacrificing that?”

 

“Of courthe they were, NP, you thaw how quickly they thcraped to get the treaty pathed,” Sollux says, and his voice reeks of bitterness. “We’ve never been anything but puppetth to them.”

 

“This tragic circumstance was never our intent!” harsh voice shouts. “Though, it _has_ happened, and as a council we agreed that the Summoner Reborn would be next to take the place of the Scion, as his ancestor did.”

 

“The Summoner ruled, because he was cruel and unrelenting to his highblood oppressors,” Tavros says. “Not that I’m complaining, since, him being the way he was, was, uh, how we got to live free lives, but what I’m saying is, we don’t really _need_ a ruler like that, anymore.”

 

“You very well might, if the Empire takes advantage of your _weakness_ ,” harsh voice snorts. “The rest of you following the plans we set out for you is the only way the Nation makes it through alive. That plan has been carefully laid in the pattern of your ancestors—”

 

“And will you sell the rest of us out if we don’t cooperate?” Kanaya says, voice soft. “The Dolorosa was enslaved by pirates. The Psiioniic, turned into an engine for the Condesce. The Disciple, banished. Their family was torn apart for the sake of an institution. Will you make us martyrs, as well?”

 

There is silence, and Terezi’s frown breaks into a huge grin. You wanna frown at her, seeing as it’s a strange thing to get her smile on about, but leave her be; Terezi’s been a strange one since she was hatched.

 

“Let me explain something to you,” Aradia says when the silence gets uncomfortable. “Our hatchsigns, our blood colors—they might very well be the same as our ancestors. We are always going to be grateful for their work and sacrifice to make this world for us to live in safely. But we are not them. We are not going to give up our lives the way you want us to.”

 

“We are already in dedication to our country,” Nepeta says. “But we’re going to make it better. We’re going to protect it and we’re going to follow Karkat’s lead. He will lead us to a future you could never have dreamed of.”

 

“The Nation is our responsibility,” Tavros, being so soft in his voice. “We are going to care for it, in the way we best see fit.”

 

“And we will do it,” Kanaya chimes in, “without you leading us by the nose.”

 

“The next time you get in our way,” Sollux says, “we’re gonna walk patht you, or _through_ you.”

 

The door slams open, and the five of you out in the hall stand straight as the five in the block file past. You get struck dumb by how they look—blood like dirt and they stand tall, shoulders thrown back and horns high like there’s crowns on their heads already, and it’s a sight so beautiful you would never have thought to see it. A faint little voice wants you to crush them, _crush them,_ but you shove it away because this a moment of import and you wanna see it through.

 

A docterrorist gets his run on down the hall.

 

“The Scion’s breathing is worse,” he says, all panicked. “And his fever just spiked—he isn’t going to—”

 

And then all ten of you are running down the hall.

 

Your blood thrums in your ears and a hand like ice is on your blood-pusher. Through the window you see docterrorists milling, see and hear the panicked beeps, and you look.

 

Soft noises of despair all around you, and you put your hands on the window, you look hard at the troll fighting for life, at the thinning frame, at the sweat-plastered hair, and you feel a hot bloom of something in your chest—like a tent rising from flat ground, like mirth but burning-iron hot, like damnation, like a frown—

 

Rage pulses through you and whispers speak soft in your pan, directions you could take, heroics you could pull, but one whisper, one whisper loud—

 

“Aradia,” you say in a voice your own and not, because your vision is drenched in your color like you ripped out your own pump-biscuit and strewed it all over, but she alone has color, she alone burns like a dull brand, hours and minutes in her eyes, clocks ticking like a pump-beat.

 

She nods.

 

Stretches forth her hand, licked by crimson fires, you can see eternity—

 

Karbro goes still.

 

The docterrorists bleat like woolbeasts, he is frozen like sleep, the trolls what are clade murmur behind you, and the blood drains from the world until you see color again. Pump-beat stable, breathing stable, but you see the clock tick and know, if the antidote will ripen in time, she could only give him one more day.

 

“It’ll be close,” Aradia says, voice like a twelfth-chime, “but he’ll make it.”

 

You turn and walk and Aradia turns and walks and behind you hear Eridan yelp like a barkbeast, “Anyone want to explain what in _gog’s_ name just happened here?”

 

==>Karkat: Dream

 

You’re…tired.

 

You think you’ve…been…asleep? For a long time. But your dreams haven’t been painful like this in so long…are you asleep?

 

You remember being unable to breathe…you remember Feferi’s wide, terrified eyes…was that a dream? A nightmare? But you’ve been on _fire_ for so long…

 

Cities going up in flames. Ships crashing on strange planets. Volcanos erupting on sleepy villages. Dragons razing oceans slick with oil. Burning, suffering, people _dying_.

 

Your friends, one by one, skulls exploding into flame, screaming, scorched-out mouths crying for help, calling for you, what can you do?

 

“Not the prettiest of pictures here, kid.”

 

You’ve heard that voice before. You know him. You scowl, try to run, but your body is heavy and you fall instead. Are caught in solid arms, pillowed against a solid chest, don’t know how it’s solid when you’re dreaming, but you can’t run from him. He only ever interferes when he seems to think you need him. You don’t need him.

 

“Go ‘way,” you say, mouth thick with ash, and he sighs. You hate that you can feel the concern in his eyes, vibrant mutant red like yours.

 

“Karkat,” he says, gentle, and you want to push him away but you’re too tired.

 

“Karkat, you’re going to wake up soon.”

 

You moan and bury your face in his cloak, even though you hate him, because you hate waking up more.

 

“Listen, kiddo,” he says. “Your friends need you out there. They’re gonna need you for what’s coming.”

 

“What’s coming?” you ask, repeat dumbly like a child.

 

“War,” he says. You want to never come out of the folds of his cloak again, because it’s soothing somehow, a break from the burn, you can barely feel it here…

 

“If you’re not there,” he says, “they’re going to destroy each other before what’s coming ever gets the chance.”

 

You hear shadowy voices, half-remembered phrases, and something cool and tingly goes down your throat even though you never opened your mouth—soothes away your burning, makes you gasp with relief.

 

“Sleep now, Karkat,” he says, and plants a scruffy kiss on your forehead. “You’re going to need your strength. They need you.”

 

You murmur names under your breath as you fade, fade from burning into cool suspension, relax from what feels like days’ worth of tension, sink hard and fast into a soft, deep darkness that cocoons you up like a lusus’ cuddle. You can almost feel the carapace rubbing against your cheek, the oversized claws adjusting your blanket, the nuzzle into your hair… _Crabdad…where…?_

 

True sleep closes over your head and you don’t dream.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found some more time, wheee! Please enjoy and remember that if you like it, I want to hear from you! Comments feed the motivation monster. <3 Thanks, guys!

==>Sollux: Be of two minds

 

Yeah, got it, that’s your MO, isn’t it so funny, eheheheheSTOP.

 

According to docterrorists, they got the antidote inside of Karkat’s system in time and he is going to live. He’s in a coma still, but a medically-induced one; the poison harmed a lot of his insides that have to be medicated and in some places cut out and have replacement tissue grafted in, so he’s not out of the woods yet, according to them, but his prognosis is significantly better.

 

You are ecstatic about that. He’s going to be fine. He’s going to _live_.

 

You are miserable about what Zhudis told you. About the ~ATH programming.

 

You messed with it a lot as a kid. It was just a hobby. Aradia had archeology; you had dangerous coding. A lot of stuff she dug up had to do with ~ATH anyway, so she would supply you with some old command prompts just to see what they did. You busted more husktops that way than any other way, including the time Kanaya felt the need to borrow your husktop, got flustered, and threw the F1 key at you in retaliation for your smart mouth.

 

Once it was impressed upon you how much damage it could do, you’d saved the programs. Deleted a lot of the more inane stuff, but kept the more dangerous templates. It was interesting. It could be used against the tech-reliant Empire one day.

 

You never would have _dreamed_ that some punk kids would be able to hack your files and get them out. In fact, before yesterday evening, you would have staked your life on the files’ safety.

 

You pull out your husktop and run a thorough scan, checking your firewalls and especially the locks you had on the ~ATH files. For a few confusing and glorious minutes: nothing.

 

Then:

 

~*YOUR NOOK JUST GOT HACKED!*~

~*SERKETWARE*~

 

You slam your husktop shut, _seething_.

 

You thought this stupid hack war was just that: stupid. You thought it was just two idiots pranking each other. You never thought she’d pull something that dangerous out—that she’d _share_ it. You haven’t breathed a word of her stupid Captain Mindfang adventures, though sometimes when you and TZ are pulling a long night you’re tempted. What makes her think she can do this? What makes her think this is even _remotely_ a good idea?

 

You open your husktop back up, crack your knuckles, and get to work, combing the Internet for the templates and deleting any and all ~ATH applications you can get your claws on. You can’t find your templates, though you do find some kinda close. Terezi gave you access to Empire web space a while ago, so you go ahead and start searching that as well, while you lock up entire websites dedicated to the mere discussion of ~ATH. Are you going overboard, misusing your power, and overreacting?

 

 

But no one’s here to tell you that, so you keep on doing exactly what it is you’re doing. You can’t afford this kind of information to make it into _anyone’s_ hands. You make copies of the more promising lines, delete the stupid stuff, and keep searching, certain you missed something, certain that if you don’t take it all someone will misuse it, someone will—

 

“Would you mind explaining to me why I suddenly have over three thousand complaint messages in the federal email because some favorite programming sites are on lockdown?”

 

You don’t even look up as Terezi sits down across from you in her customary chair.

 

“Can’t thtop,” you say feverishly. “She leaked them. Need to get ‘em back.”

 

“Leaked what?”

 

“~ATH,” you say, and Terezi furrows her brows.

 

“Who did?”

 

“VK.”

 

“For what purpose?”

 

“To thcrew with me,” you say, deleting an entire website, whoops, hope that one wasn’t important. “She went too far thith time. She went too far.”

 

She watches you work another minute, then reaches over and closes your husktop on your frantic fingers. You glare at her, half a snarl already on your face, and then draw back a little at the hard look on her face.

 

“Talk to me,” she says like an order.

 

“I…she…” you swallow and let Terezi take your husktop off your lap, grinding the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I…I methed up, I methed up tho bad, TZ—”

 

Without even knowing how it happens, without even questioning it, you find your face buried in the side of Terezi’s neck, mumbling into the cool skin everything you’ve done wrong—the misinformation circulating the Nation’s web space, the ~ATH programs you let out of your sight, the stupid templates…all of it. How you feel about that…is a harder tangle. You are ashamed, burningly ashamed, of letting something that dangerous leak into the hands of inexperienced hackers. You are also kind of proud of them for trying, and still so mistrustful, forever mistrustful, of the Empire, wondering when you’ll have to use it, feeling guilty because not all the Empire clade guys are complete jerks all the time…

 

You are a mess, Sollux Captor, because you are crying gross yellow tears into Terezi’s neck and you aren’t sorry. For once in your gogawful life, you aren’t sorry for dumping all this on someone else.

 

She strokes your hair and brushes your horns and you latch your hands into her shirt and don’t let go. You are pathetic.

 

You never could do this with Karkat, you think hazily. The Elders are idiots for ever thinking that.

 

You can almost hear something over the sound of your own gross sobs, a sibilant sort of sound from Terezi’s thorax…but…it can’t…is she…?

 

She gently takes you by the shoulders and leans you back; you shut your miserable eyes and don’t look as she stands up, because of course she’s leaving, you’re too much of a screw-up to stay with for a second longer, you curl up in a ball and pretend nothing ever happened and nothing ever will again—

 

But there are her hands again, guiding you because you stupidly refuse to open your eyes, and she makes you kneel and then keel sideways into a—into a—

 

“It’s a little more comfortable than the chairs,” she says gently, and guides your face back into her neck while the rest of you lays on a central arrangement of your bed sheets and pillows not unlike a… “It’s okay, Sollux. Tell me about it more, if you want. Or not. We can just lay here until you feel better.”

 

You can’t believe this is happening.

 

You press yourself as close as you can get to Terezi, curling up against her with your awkward bony body, and wait to hear the unmistakable purring _shoosh_ rumbling up from her chest. You fall to pieces all over again.

 

“I’m here,” she says, her tiny killer hands running up and down your spine in soothing circles, in long slow paps. “I’m right here.”

 

==>

 

You leave your block sometime after sunrise, looking for Vriska. Terezi impressed upon you that it wouldn’t be best to come at her all guns blazing, and you are grudgingly sticking to that, even though you want to take her by the horns and shove her head in a load gaper for a while. But that’s better than wanting to obliterate her, so points to you.

 

You find her curled up in a movie-viewing block on the recreation floor. She glances at you when you come in and pauses it.

 

“Took you long enough, Captor,” she says, grinning that stupid smug grin of hers that you hate a lot.

 

“Where ith it,” you say quietly, hands in your pockets. “That thtuff wath more dangerouth than you’d even know what to do with, Therket. What’d you do with it?”

 

“You mean those gibberish files I swiped from your oldest folders?” Vriska yawns, patting her mouth. “They’re safe, don’t worry. But let’s just say I’ll give them back when you erase all the Captain Mindfang videos.”

 

Your initial reaction is to scream about how dangerous computer programs and a stupid wigglerhood video series aren’t even close to being equal in value. Your secondary reaction is to hold the videos close to your chest because _noooo_ you were gonna post them on CruelTube and it was gonna be _hilarious_. But your sense overrides your gut.

 

“Fine,” you say. “Conthider them deleted. Now where are thothe fileth?”

 

“Geez, touchy,” she says, stretching languidly. You are not certain why it just now occurs to you that Vriska’s not…wearing very much. Uh. Just a flimsy tank top sans heft sack and shorts. No, down, Sollux, this isn’t the time or the place. Or the troll. Ew. What were you—? Right. Files.

 

“Thothe are extremely volatile programth, VK,” you say, cocking your hip and crossing your arms. “I did a thorough thearch and found a lot of other kidth thcrewing around with them, but none of my fileth. Where are they?”

 

“Like I’d post something like that online!” she scoffs. “It was just a bunch of junky curse programs, dude, not embarrassing childhood photos or secret lip synching videos. I’m looking for _dirt_ , not for garbage.”

 

You feel a twin surge of relief and irritation.

 

“They’re not garbage,” you mutter. “Give them back.”

 

“Consider them returned,” she says, mocking your tone and standing. “When I have proof the videos are gone, I will send back the files.”

 

“When the fileth are back, I’ll delete the videoth,” you say, glaring at her as she walks towards you. Kinda. Sexy the way she moves her hips. Wait. No. Stay on target, Captor. Vriska gets right in your face, just a couple inches too short to be eye-to-eye, and you let a smug grin on your face when she realizes it and grimaces.

 

“You first,” she says, and it’s a really weirdly tense moment. Her top’s slipped down a little on her shoulder. Did she plan this? She had to have planned this. But she isn’t making a move any more than you are, so maybe not? You’ve seen how Vriska pitch-flirts with Tavros and it’s obvious, her throwing herself at his feet practically. This is different. This is…

 

You take a step back, and she grins in triumph. “Fine. I’ll delete them. But I expect to thee the fileth back in my huthktop by evening, VK.”

 

“I’ll be checking very thoroughly that you deleted all of them, Captor,” she says, and flounces past you, flicking her hair over her shoulder. It catches you in the face and you sneeze.

 

“Sure,” you grunt, and watch her as she walks away a little too closely. It’s not like she’s got anything worth writing hive about, anyway. Flat butt and skinny hips. But sometimes when she moves—

 

You walk back to your block in a towering fury, but not the kind that incapacitates you. Instead, you copy the Mindfang videos to a disk and then spend a good several hours laying in the pile still set up on your floor, spamming Vriska’s email account with meowbeast videos that may or may not be from virus-laden sites, who’s to say?

 

==>Kanaya: Evaluate

 

“Thank you for coming,” Payter says to you as you fold your hands in your lap, the perfect picture of a demure jadeblood. “We thought it best to—”

 

“To speak to the one who will theoretically not have her passions run away with her,” you cut in, calm. Payter doesn’t so much as grimace, but the line between her brows speaks volumes. “Please don’t be deceived and think my lack of yelling means compliance.”

 

“Of course,” Payter says smoothly. It’s just you and her today in this alcove, which you are grateful for. If Zhudis were here, you would have already threatened him, and Daryus…just isn’t much of an entity, never has been. He’s too indulgent for Payter to let his decisions stand on their own. You think Payter knows all of this and that’s why she’s the one talking to you now, greenblood to greenblood.

 

“You are angry with us,” Payter says.

 

“I would be more surprised if we weren’t,” you reply. “I wonder that you seem so taken aback by it.”

 

“Not taken aback,” Payter shakes her head. “Disappointed, perhaps, but not in the least surprised.”

 

Awkward silence. You refrain from fidgeting, meeting Payter’s steady gaze with your own.

 

“With the Scion—with Karkat—recovering so speedily,” Payter says, carefully, “I think it would be best if we began drafting an amendment to our treaty.”

 

“An amendment?” you frown.

 

“It is clear to me, from the reports I have received, that the Empire is due for some trouble with their colonies,” Payter says. “For our Nation’s survival, it would be prudent to put some distance between us. I understand that it will be awkward to negotiate, but had we known the extent of the insurrection, we would have rejected the treaty in the first place. We have every right, with our Scion recovering from the brink of death. Surely not even the Empire clade would protest, when presented with the evidence.”

 

“You clearly don’t know them very well,” you murmur.

 

“I would like your help in breaking the news to the clades,” Payter says, and you frown deeper.

 

“That would require my agreement with your plan,” you say. “I heartily do not.”

 

“The dream is over, Kanaya,” Payter says firmly. “It is time we cut our losses now, before more damage can be done. The Empire’s fate is in their own hands, but the Nation’s is in mine, and I will not see it destroyed by continued correspondence with—”

 

“With our own kind?” you say, and stand. “Payter, I have always had respect for you, so please understand me when I say that it’s becoming clear to me that the Council is becoming obsolete. Do you truly believe that this rebellion of the Empire’s will stop when the Empire is destroyed? If the Empire falls, all of trollkind falls. The settlements from all over the galaxy, all over Empire space, will descend on us. They do not see blood color. They see trolls, trolls descended from trolls who enslaved and killed them. Either we need to help them keep control, or we need to peel back centuries of imperialist rule in order to save ourselves, but running and hiding will not work. It will kill us all.”

 

Payter’s jaw clenches. You make a dainty curtsy.

 

“When Karkat wakes up, we will have a plan ready to present to him,” you say. “One of our own making. You will not have a hand in it.”

 

You turn to go, and hear Payter get to her feet.

 

“You are threatening us?” Payter says, her voice neutral. “It will be civil war, if you attempt to break ties with the Council.”

 

That does give you pause, but you swallow down your bile.

 

“Then put your caegers where your mouth is,” you say simply. “Support us, as you’ve said you always do. Don’t lie to us or try to control us, Payter. We will not be controlled.”

 

You leave that alcove feeling like you need a nap.

 

In truth, you think the Council’s plan practical, but as you’ve been learning, what’s practical isn’t always what’s best. Payter’s threat certainly wasn’t something you were expecting her to vocalize, though the idea has been hanging around in the back of your mind. A public split with the Council will prove deadly, supposing the population of the Nation fractures over it, which they might; not everyone will be comfortable with the idea of six eight-and-nine-sweep-olds running the place. They are even less comfortable with the alliance. Trolls are ever so tiresome, you think as you enter your block.

 

Something hard digs into your scalp as you flop on your pillows with a huff, and without opening your eyes you reach for it. It’s rough-edged and circular. You hold it in front of your face and open your eyes. Then you blink.

 

It’s one of the pendants the jewel merchants from the market showed you, deep blue in color. You sit up, and see that a fine silver chain was coiled under it. There is no note, no indication of who left it for you, though the color may be a clue.

 

It’s a bold gift. Very bold. Uncharacteristically so.

 

You run your thumb over the pendant’s surface. As it happens, you do have a dress this would match.

 

You get out your palmhusk.

 

_GA: Thank You_

 

It takes a few minutes, but your phone pings.

 

_AA: no problem! 0u0_

 

_GA: Though You Realize It Is Not Necessary To Bribe Me With Gifts_

_GA: I Am Carefully Considering The Idea_

_AA: i know. but i also saw how much you were eyeballing it._

_AA: consider it a gift twofold. one, to show you i can provide, baby!_

_GA: And Two?_

_AA: something to get you to stop considering and start DOING!_

You look at the pendant, then back at the dark red letters winking at you on your palmhusk.

 

You get up, turn on a light, and cross to your vanity, stringing the pendant as you go. Once there, you hesitate, then hang it around your neck. You look at it as it sits high on your chest, then go into your closet.

 

You haven’t worn this dress in quite some time. It’s a bit tight across your hips. But more than that, the red dye turned out a little too dark and you felt it was conspicuous. It hits you in the right places, and with some tailoring, would be quite the statement. The blue pendant suits it nicely, actually.

 

You look at yourself, green eyes, red dress, blue jewel, and then hear a knock at your door.

 

In horror you start struggling out of the dress.

 

“One moment,” you say, your voice higher than usual, and then fall over, cursing.

 

“Kan?” Oh, botheration, why does Eridan have to be at the door now, of all times? “Are you alright?”

 

“Fine!” you squeak. Ah. Yes. The dress is off. “Just—just changing.”

 

You hurriedly stuff the dress under your bed, and the pendant follows after you detangle it from around your crooked horn. Which leaves you sitting in your undergarments, but it’s better than being found in that dress. You then pull on the looser shirt and skirt you were wearing earlier and then, certain the incriminating clothing is out of sight, you answer the door.

 

Eridan’s hands are stuffed into his pockets, and his shoulders are thrown back. He would be the picture of casual grace were it not for the look of utter panic on his face before it calms down into a smile.

 

“I was wonderin’ if you wanted to grab lunch,” he says.

 

You hesitate, not because the offer isn’t tempting, but because it is. That surprises you. Eridan’s smile falls, just a fraction.

 

“Of course,” you say, and close the door behind you. You loop your arm through his when he offers, smiling at the gallantry.

 

“I thought we might take it to a balcony,” he says on the way to the cafeteria, and you look at him, surprised.

 

“That would be alright with me,” you say, and he gives another one of those nervous smiles that are transparently relieved. His devotion to the idea that you’re going to refuse him is almost…pitiable.

 

The balcony he chooses overlooks the sea. From up here, you have a beautiful view of the water, and can see several lusii swimming through both waves and clouds. For some reason it makes a small, old part of your blood-pusher ache.

 

“What did you want to talk about tonight?” you ask, because that’s what happens when you and Eridan talk—he usually wants your opinion on what he’s wearing, or advice on some small problem he’s usually grappling with. Small problems.

 

“I want to talk about you tonight, Kan,” he says, and you blink. “I’m always natterin’ on about stupid stuff.” He takes a bite of sandwich. “So. What’s up?”

 

It sounds so absurd in his bubbling accent you smile, taking a dainty bite of pasta.

 

“Anything in particular you wish to hear?” you ask. Eridan shrugs.

 

“Whatever,” he shrugs, then colors. His earfins fan out and he looks even more absurd. You are holding back giggles. “No, wait I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean whatever you wanna talk about. Not that what you want to talk about is whatever. I’m sure it’s important. Even if it’s not. But it could be! Uh.”

 

You pat his hand. His color deepens, purple from ear to ear. Dare you think it? It’s cute. “I’m well for the moment,” you say. “I’m worried about Karkat.”

 

“Ter—Terezi says the docterrorists have said they’re gonna finish with surgery by this morning,” he says, and that’s something you hadn’t heard yet. “Should be outta the coma soon after.”

 

You breathe a sigh of relief. Eridan looks pleased with himself.

 

“Then I’m perfectly well,” you say, smiling. Oh dear, Eridan’s blush looks permanent. You both turn back to your lunches. It’s not like you’re leading him on, is it? You do genuinely find him attractive, in a pathetic sort of way. Though as he looks out to sea, his earfins relaxed, the wind teasing his hair, you see very well that he already has grown into his commanding profile, every inch a seadweller. He glances at you, and his earfins flutter.

 

_stop considering, start DOING!_

 

You feel your own cheeks heat and glance down at your lunch. Look at that, you’ve eaten it all already. How funny.

 

You glance up, and Eridan opens his mouth, but an enraged bellow interrupts.

 

You know that bellow.

 

“Tavros,” you say, standing and running towards it, Eridan on your heels.

 

“Vris must be winding him up again,” he says, and that makes you run harder. Stupid, _stupid_ , to be wasting time making eyes at someone when Tavros needs your help. It seems the ruckus, because there are more voices chiming in now, is coming from the cafeteria. You burst through the door.

 

Tavros has Vriska pinned against the wall, his horns lowered, his teeth bared, and one of his fists is curled around her throat. She’s grinning, and you see in horror that she has a sword pressed against his belly.

 

You can see that around the room, most of the others are milling around, shouting, trying to talk both of them down. You look at Tavros and feel a ripple of fear in your stomach. You’ve never seen him like this before. Your breath catches in your throat as you take a step towards them.

 

“That is _enough_.”

 

And there is someone else between them, someone putting his hand on Tavros’ chest and forcing him back, someone grabbing Vriska by the wrist and sternly shaking the sword out of her grip.

 

Equius, his eyes shaded, frowns at Tavros and Vriska. He has not removed his hands, and both of them are staring at him, dumbstruck. Your eyes widen.

 

“Vriska, I expected this from you,” he scolds, “but Nitram, I thought you a troll with better sense.”

 

Tavros goes bronze in the face, though he doesn’t move. He does stop snarling, however, instead looking merely angry instead of murderous. Vriska snorts, and Equius releases his grip on her wrist, instead grasping her shoulder, shaking her hard enough to break her eye contact with Tavros. She glares at him.

 

“Just having a bit of fun,” she mumbles, and sounds chastised.

 

“It is not fun to goad other people into fighting you,” Equius says, patient. “It is foolishness. You will either stop, or I will make you stop.”

 

Oh, gog, you recognize that tone of voice. You know the resentful, yet respectful look on both Vriska and Tavros’ faces.

 

Somehow…you don’t mind. You are actually relieved, when you think about it.

 

“Am I clear?” Equius says, his voice quiet now.

 

“Yes,” Tavros says. He hasn’t stepped out of range of Equius’ restraining hand.

 

Vriska glares at Equius for a long moment. Then looks at Tavros.

 

“But—”

 

“Am I clear?” Equius repeats. His fingers tighten on her shoulder. She winces, looks up at Equius.

 

“Yes,” she says.

 

“Good.” Equius’ hands fall. “The rest of us would like to eat in peace. If you can refrain from acting like spiteful wigglers, you may join us.”

 

You look at Equius as he gently pushes Tavros back towards his table, but doesn’t take his hand off Vriska’s shoulder, instead guiding her towards a separate table and sitting her down. Your blood-pusher seems to be beating a little louder in your ears.

 

You seem to be floating, hardly aware that you’re sitting down across from Equius until your rump meets seat.

 

“Ah,” Equius says, and you blink. He bows his head, and a strand of hair falls in front of his face. “Forgive me, Maryam. I did not mean to overstep your…your ashen territory.”

 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you say, and look at Vriska. “I think we all knew I was perhaps not the best person to step into that position.”

 

Vriska pouts. You smile, stand, and lean over the table, moving the errant lock from Equius’ face back into place. His forehead pops out in sweat.

 

You straighten and catch Aradia’s eye as you go to sit by Tavros, and she grins. You smile back and nod. She grins wider.

 

“That was unexpected,” Eridan comments, sliding in beside you as you sit down.

 

“Yeah,” Tavros says, and turns guilty eyes up to you. “Kanaya, I’m sorry—”

 

“As far as breakups go, I can assure you, this one is the happiest I’ve ever been a part of,” you say, and smile at Tavros’ chagrin. “Friends?”

 

“Of course,” he says, and then is distracted as Nepeta slides up next to him and steals some of his fried grubs.

 

“That was unexpected!” she chirps. “I nefur would have pawt Equius had it in him!”

 

“I just said that,” Eridan says, and Nepeta smiles sweetly.

 

“I don’t care,” she says.

 

“Can we keep the hateflirting out of our lunch, pleathe?” Sollux says loudly from a table over, and Eridan flips him off.

 

You put your hand on his arm and lower it.

 

“That’s rude, dear,” you say idly, and steal one of Tavros’ grubs yourself. You pretend you don’t notice Eridan casting glances at you from the corner of his eye.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had some more time, whee! Enjoy! As an interesting fact, the Broken Crowns document is now so big and full of so many spelling errors that spell check has said it can't show all of them anymore. So basically: I broke spell check. Hallelujah. XD

==>Spades Slick: Meet with client

 

Yeah, yeah, you’re on it. Just gotta set up this…stupid…thing…

 

“Droog!” you bark, and your second-in-command sticks his head in.

 

“Yes?” he says flatly.

 

“Fix the thing,” you say, holding up the tangle of cords in your hands, and Diamonds Droog sighs longer than necessary and walks into your office.

 

“How you manage to do this without fail every single time is beyond me,” Droog says as he takes the tangle away from you. “If you would stop fiddling with it—”

 

“I don’t _fiddle_ with it,” you spit. “It does that all on its own.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Droog says, and pushes a button. There, see, it works just fine for _him_. Stupid communication device. “Better call him now.”

 

“Yeah, right,” you grunt. “I know how to do my job, Droog.”

 

“Of course you do,” Droog says. “We need to have a chat about the budget when you’re done.”

 

“Sure,” you say, and when the door is shut, you make the call. Your client is a scary dude, and coming from a hardened mobster like you, that’s saying something. You make sure your tie is straight before the hologram comes into focus. There he is, way too stupidly huge and grubby, with facepaint and twisting horns and _hair_ , good grief trolls are disgusting.

 

“Slick,” your client rumbles.

 

“Yeah,” you say. “Look, if this is about that troll kid again, I swear we’ll have another guy on it soon—”

 

“Leave the grub,” the troll says. “Bigger fish are out there for us to fry.”

 

Oh, great. You almost prefer it when he’s half-shouty. He gets all weird and existential when he’s quiet. You rub your scarred-up eye.

 

“Yeah? What’s in it for us?” you grump.

 

“What pay you were to receive for the death of Vantas,” he says, “I will pay in full for this next job.”

 

“Oh?” you say, sitting up straight. You remember that payoff. Your mouth waters just thinking about it. “Well, I’m listening, Makara.”

 

He tells you the job. You frown.

 

“Look, buddy, we’re not part of this whole rebellion and war thing,” you say. “That’s a little too close to subterfuge for us. We’re just a gang.”

 

The troll just looks at you. A shiver goes down your back, but your gut is still twisty from what he wants you to do. Which is saying something, because you’re not a nice guy. Not even a little bit. But this?

 

“Nah,” you say. “Nah, look, see, we’re—keep your money, pal, find some other chump to do your dirty work. That ain’t us.”

 

“Very well,” the troll rumbles. “But make sure, Slick. Make CERTAIN what side you’re on. WAR IS COMING. War will sweep all before it away. THIS I HAVE FORESEEN. This I have worked for.”

 

Great, he’s back to being shouty. His face is still placid as anything, which skeeves you out. But in your guts you know he’s not lying, and that as Boss, you’ve got some decisions to make. Now that you’ve basically thrown this guy’s offer back in his face, you reckon that’s a declaration of which way you’re leaning. You just wish it was neutral, because that’s what you’d like more than anything. But you’ve dealt with whackjobs before. That ain’t how he’s gonna see it.

 

You end the call and sit back in your chair, thinking. Then you grab a handful of licorice dogs and stomp out of your office to talk to your worthless lieutenants.

 

They’re all in the lounge. Droog is reading. Hearts Boxcars is playing solitaire. Deuce Clubs looks like he’s having an animated conversation with a throw pillow. Where’d he even get a throw pillow? You clear your throat, loud-like.

 

“Yes?” Droog says without looking up from his book.

 

“We’ve gotta talk,” you say, and all three of them look up at you.

 

“What did you do?” Droog asks.

 

“What? Nothin’,” you frown. “I’m just sayin’. What, a boss can’t wanna talk to his subordinates now and then?”

 

“Well, you only ever wanna talk when something’s up, Boss!” Deuce chirps.

 

“Is somethin’ up?” Hearts asks.

 

You sigh and sink into your chair at the card table. Droog and Deuce join you and Hearts at the table.

 

“I mighta told our client to stick it,” you say, and Droog frowns.

 

“Why’d you do that?” Hearts rumbles.

 

“His job was a buncha bogus,” you growl. “Real unsavory-type stuff.”

 

“You do realize what our profession is, right?” Droog deadpans.

 

“Yeah, well, sorry if slaughterin’ whole towns a folks isn’t in our job description,” you say. “Maybe I’m an old softie, but that don’t sound like that much fun.”

 

Droog keeps his mouth shut for once. Deuce’s face crumples into a frown. Even Hearts looks troubled, and you woulda bet money that he’d be up for that kind of job.

 

“What town?” Hearts asks.

 

“I dunno, some troll village on one a their cruddy ships,” you say, throwing up your hands. “The point is, gentlemen, I made an executive call, and I think I mighta landed us in hot water.”

 

“What kind of hot water?” Droog asks.

 

“Let me answer that with another question,” you say. “How much cash would it take to leave this universe?”

 

“More than we have,” Droog says.

 

“What do we do, Boss?” Deuce asks. “That troll guy is bad news, right?”

 

“Major bad news,” you say grimly. “From what I got, he seems to think war’s nippin’ at our heels.”

 

“We could probably get out of dodge if we left now,” Hearts says.

 

“The thing is, I been thinkin’ it over real careful-like,” you say, and Droog rolls his eyes. “No, no, shaddup, and listen. What I think is, if trolls go to war, who’re they gonna go to war with?”

 

“Each other, hopefully,” Droog says.

 

“No, stupid,” you say. “Them rebels what’re givin’ ‘em so much trouble. The Black Queen and her ilk. Know what I’m sayin’?”

 

“No,” Deuce says. You sigh.

 

“Right, look,” you say. “If and when this war blows up, there goes all our business. Won’t be a system in the galaxy we can loot from, since trolls’ve got their fingers in every pie real good.”

 

“We could always make a living out of weapons and supplies dealing,” Droog says.

 

“See, that’s what I’m thinking,” you say. “The question is, what side do you think is gonna win?”

 

The table is silent.

 

“We could deal to both,” Droog says.

 

“Naw, naw, that always ends bad,” Hearts says.

 

“But if we pick the wrong side, there goes our livelihood,” Droog argues. “And our lives, probably.”

 

“Well, we’re gonna die anyway, right?” you say. “I say, let’s work on makin’ a stockpile. Then, once we got some goods, we make a decision.”

 

“If we wait for the conflict to blow, we might lose our window,” Droog says.

 

“Well, trolls win everything, right?” Deuce says. “Why don’t we sell to them?”

 

There’s silence while you all look at Deuce. That’s the only sensible thing to ever come out of his mouth.

 

“That’s not a bad idea, Deuce,” you say.

 

“With the alliance shaky right now, it might not be a good idea,” Droog says.

 

“What if we sell to the Vantas kid?” Hearts says.

 

“After we tried to kill him?” you say. “That’s stupid.”

 

“Yeah, but if you believe the rumor mill, he’s the face of the alliance right now,” Droog says thoughtfully. “It would be smart if we made contact with their spy network instead of them directly, anyway. I heard they joined forces weeks ago.”

 

“Fine, fine,” you say. “Gimme some time to think about it. Then I’ll make a call.” You stand up. “Droog, start makin’ calls. We need to get a monopoly going on high-grade weapons, stat.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Droog says. “Hearts, come with me.”

 

“What do I do, Boss?” Deuce asks as the other two leave.

 

“Clean this place up, it’s filthy,” you say, and leave smirking. That oughta keep him busy for a while. You got some important thinking to do.

 

==>Feferi: Get back on your feet

 

You’ve been back on your feet for some time. Or, to be more specific, you’ve been swimming for some time. Building back up your strength. Working off some of the laziness that’s been building on your bones. That kind of thing.

 

You surface, a long way from shore, and see someone waving at you. It looks like Aradia, but you could be wrong. You dip under the waves and start kicking, shifting to gill-breathing effortlessly. Not that you’d admit it, but you used to have a hard time switching between gills and lungs when you were a guppy! Meenah coached you through it, one of the few times she’s ever shown you kindness. You received a message saying that she’s tankbound now, unable to breathe outside of the medical gel the medicullers are submerging her in nightly. In your blood you hear the sing-song promise of her life snapping out soon. You aren’t sure how to feel about it. She was supposed to be approving the changes you and your clade were making in the name of the alliance, but with her sickness…things have changed. She has no breath or strength to give commands anymore.

 

When you make it back to the beach, walking steadily for the first time in nights, Aradia grins, holding out a towel.

 

“You seem to be doing better,” she says, and you smile, wringing out your hair.

 

“I feel better,” you say. “Was there something you needed?”

 

“Not in particular,” she says. “Can I walk you back?”

 

“Only if you’ll join me for dinner,” you say, grinning as she smiles at you. You’re ravenous.

 

“When the Princess asks, how can I say no?” Aradia teases, hip-checking you as you settle the towel around your neck. You flick her with the end of it.

 

Back up in the cafeteria there are a few early diners, Gamzee picking at something breaded and Sollux using his brain to bring his sandwich to his mouth, taking absent bites as he types on his husktop. You grab a tray and load up, Aradia following behind and snitching small bites of mashed tubers and grub nuggets when you pretend you’re not looking. You don’t really mind. In a minute you might, but you’re still on an endorphin rush from your swim and you’re happy to be an active troll again more than anything. You sit down at an empty table and start gorging. You’re still starving from whatever you did to save Karkat’s life, still wake up sometimes weak and chilly, but you’re getting better. And you’re trying to figure out how to tap into that power again. It’s not going so well.

 

Eridan and Terezi walk in a few minutes later, laughing about something. Terezi seems to sniff out Sollux and pats Eridan’s shoulder, pushing him towards the food line as she sits down next to Sollux. You watch, and notice that Eridan’s expression is dark and ugly. You glance at Aradia, who looks at you and shrugs.

 

Eridan gets his food and sits down by you.

 

“Hey, Fef,” he says. “You’re looking well.”

 

You smile. “I feel well.”

 

“Good,” he says, in a loud, hearty voice. You furrow your brows at him. “Nice to see you takin’ care a yourself. Dealin’ with your own problems. That’s nice.”

 

“Uh…I guess,” you say. Eridan takes a savage bite of his pasta as he glances sidelong—what’s his obsession with Terezi and Sollux? “How—how’ve you been, Erifin?”

 

“Peachy,” he says, still too loudly.

 

“Okay,” you say, glance again at Aradia, and resume eating.

 

“Did you look over the files I sent you?” Aradia asks a few minutes later. More people have been filing in, taking seats and talking. Eridan swallows. Has he been chomping on the same bite for all this time?

 

“I did,” he practically shouts over the noise. “Because I can actually keep up with my workload. Unlike _some_ people.”

 

One table over, Sollux flinches.

 

“And what are your thoughts on the proposed publicity campaign?” Aradia asks, calmly, though you notice she has an intrigued smile on her face.

 

“Needs some tweakin’,” Eridan says. “We wouldn’t want certain trolls gettin’ it in their nugs that they can step out a their bounds.”

 

“Why are you yelling?” you ask. “And what do you mean, stepping out of bounds?”

 

“I’m not yellin’,” Eridan very clearly yells, and he keeps sneaking nasty looks at a visibly-prickling Sollux. You have a very bad feeling about this. “And all I’m sayin’ is, troll equality is great an all, but there are some positions some castes are just _suited_ to. That they can really _plug into_ and do their best. _Pilot_ _the ship they’re born to_ , ‘s what I’m sayin’.”

 

Sollux half-rises. Terezi puts her hand on his shoulder, frowning deeply, and forces him back down, talking very fast and low in Sollux’s ear.

 

“Be quiet, Eridan,” Terezi finally says, and Eridan’s fins flatten a little before flaring. That’s a very bad sign. You reach out, but his big mouth opens before you can touch him.

 

“Oh don’t start, Ter, just because historically _your_ caste has been glubbin’ useless an you’re no better—”

 

And that’s when Eridan is bodily lifted by a shower of sparks and thrown against the wall.

 

Sollux is floating, his eyes flashing, his fangs bared, and Eridan stands just in time to be lifted up again and bounced off the drywall.

 

“You picked a bad day, Ampora,” he snarls.

 

“Like any day is a good day, Captor,” Eridan coughs, only to be slammed against the wall a third time and this time, held there. You stand, and hear other people around you standing. Terezi is the only one still sitting, stone-faced and tight-mouthed.

 

“Not again,” Aradia says despairingly. “We just dealt with this the other day—”

 

“You run your mouth too much,” Sollux says, murderously quiet. Eridan bares his own fangs and fans his fins out wide in a clear threat display. You swallow. Very, very bad sign.

 

“An you got a lot a gumption for a pissblood,” he says.

 

Sollux roars—actually roars—and the sparks press against Eridan’s throat.

 

“What in the mother grub’s most flatulent orifice are you nookwhiffs _doing?_ ”

 

You can’t believe you are hearing this. Or seeing this, for that matter! But—there in the doorway, just beside where Eridan is being choked out by psii, leaning against the doorjamb with a blanket thrown over his pajamas, is Karkat Vantas.

 

“He’th—” Sollux protests, and Karkat glares. Just _glares_. And Sollux zips his mouth.

 

“Drop him,” he croaks, and after a tense moment the sparks dissipate. Eridan drops like a rock, gasping for breath.

 

Karkat lurches forward, grabbing Eridan by the thicker lower lobe of his ear and dragging him upright. Eridan gets to his feet in quick order, and Karkat half-limps, half-marches Eridan to stand next to Sollux, who has his shoulders hunched and is glaring at his feet.

 

“I heard what he said,” Karkat growls, and smacks Eridan upside the head. “You know better than to spout that garbage just to get a reaction, bilge-for-brains.”

 

Eridan grumbles something, shifting his feet.

 

“What was that?” Karkat barks. “I can’t hear you!”

 

You look at Aradia on one side, and Nepeta on your other, and feel embarrassed. Are you supposed to be watching this?

 

Eridan lifts his chin and glares down at Karkat. “He’s ugly and he don’t know how to show respect,” he says clearly, like he’s reporting to a commanding officer.

 

“Respect is something that you _earn_ ,” Karkat says, stabbing him in the chest with his finger. “And running your mouth like a pan-dead idiot just dropped you in _everybody’s_ rating system.”

 

Eridan shuffles his feet again. “Didn’t mean it,” he mutters.

 

“Then don’t say it!” Karkat yells, and Eridan flinches. Sollux snorts a small giggle.

 

“And you!” Karkat says, rounding on Sollux. “Do we need to go back to schoolfeeding about this?”

 

“Wathn’t like I can tattle to Teacher about it,” Sollux says, and Karkat colors some.

 

“Then tattle to me,” he says, fiercely and suddenly, somehow, much more intimate. “I know he’s a jerk. And ignoring him won’t work when he’s being obnoxious.” Eridan’s earfins droop. “But for gog’s sake, Sollux, you know how bad an idea it is to be throwing around Empire dignitaries at a peace conference, right?”

 

Sollux glares at his shoes again. Nods once.

 

“I mean it,” Karkat says, and both Sollux and Eridan look up. “If you boneheads start causing trouble again, I will shove my foot so far up both your sphincters that you’ll be tasting my toe jam for sweeps.” He then reaches up and knocks their heads together. Sollux and Eridan both make noises of protest, rubbing their heads. “Now get outta the way, I’ve been eating out of an IV drip and pissing in a bedpan for too long. I need real food.”

 

That breaks the spell; in a rush Karkat is suddenly surrounded by both of the clades, and though he’s yelling and complaining he is also grinning, shaking hands and accepting hugs. You and Gamzee, surprisingly, both hang back, and you glance at each other.

 

“I reckon Karbro gotta get his greet on for people of more import,” Gamzee says to your wordless question. “Get on up there, Fef-sis, that’s your heart-brother, right?”

 

You look and see that Kanaya, recently entered, has Karkat in a very tight hug.

 

“I can wait,” you say, and look up at Gamzee’s bashful face. “Want to go watch a movie later?”

 

“Only if it’s the one with the sea-witch what has tentacles and a rockin’ badonkadonk,” Gamzee says, and you burst out laughing.

 

“Of course,” you smile, and loop your arm in his. Once, it was proposed that you and Gamzee be arranged moirails, and you weren’t exactly anti the idea, but you think it’s better for both of you if you stay friends. Friends who stay up late watching Troll Disney in your respite block and paint each other’s faces up and pointedly avoid talking about the nubby-horned trunkbeast in the room.

 

 

Gamzee’s face is done up in flowers and fish by the time the credits roll, and he has his tongue poking out from between his fangs.

 

“Hold still, Fef-sis,” he says for the umpteenth time as you wriggle. Not your fault; the brush is tickly! “Got me a sick tenta-beast goin’ here ‘round your eyes.”

 

“Sorry,” you say, and look at him. “You seem different, Clamzee.”

 

Gamzee’s eyes flick on yours for a minute, then away. “Don’t reckon I got much to say on the subject. Somethin’ about this place up and shuts the demons down in my pan.”

 

“I don’t think it’s the fintastic ocean view that’s doing it for you,” you say, and grin as Gamzee quirks his mouth. But that’s bordering back onto the aforementioned trunkbeast and Troll Disney-and-paint nights aren’t about that. Gamzee makes a few more strokes and then sinks back on his rump, admiring his handiwork.

 

“Check it,” he says, and you hold up your gold-and-shell-handled mirror to inspect his handiwork. You look awesome! It looks like a whole octopus is descending on your face and wreathing your features with its awesomeness. You grin. Gamzee’s paint doesn’t look near as good but he’s a good sport about it, praising the plentifulness of both flowers and fish on his face.

 

It’s really nice to not be worried about anything and enjoy a friend’s company. Gamzee has always been good about that, when it’s just him and you. Even when you were wrigglers.

 

“Remember that time,” you say suddenly, “when you and I walked around the ship with painted-up faces and freaked out half the crew?”

 

Gamzee chuckles. “Sure do, sis,” he says, leaning back against the headboard. “I seem to recall the wicked brother on board getting right salty at me later for darin’ to touch sacred paint to a heretic’s face, but it never did bother me none.”

 

You smile, but it’s a little more strained. “Yeah. Meenah wasn’t too happy, either.”

 

You both sit in silence for a minute or two. Gamzee’s large, long-fingered hand passes absently over the comforter covering the huge bed.

 

“You and Karbro pailed yet?” he asks, and you turn tyrian to the tips of your fins.

 

“ _Gamzee!_ ” you shriek, throwing a pillow at him, which he catches. “You don’t just spray that to someone!”

 

“Someone?” he asks with a laugh in his voice. You throw another pillow at him.

 

“ _Anemone-one,_ ” you say vehemently. “That’s—oh my glub, Clamzee, no, we haven’t, we haven’t even kissed, oh my gog…”

 

While you recover from your embarrassment, Gamzee clears away the paint in case you get violent again, probably.

 

“Have you told him you’re reely pale for him yet?” you ask, as a way of getting some of your own back, but the dumb dummy clown just smiles in a sad sort of way.

 

“Not as such, sister,” he shrugs. “I reckon if he don’t have an inkling he ain’t a very smart sort of troll, but I ain’t never made the words with my mouth.”

 

You’re touched by his honesty. You pat his knee.

 

“I’m shore he’ll come around,” you say. Gamzee shrugs again.

 

“What about you, Fef-sis, do you want him to up and lay passionate liplock on your royal mouth, or what?”

 

You pick at a hangclaw. “I dunno. It’s comfortable just being near beach other right now. I haven’t thought aboat taking it any farther. But,” you say with an ugly grimace, “other people have taken it uprawn themshellves to let me know that if I don’t seal the deal schooner or later the matespritship could be voided under old Empirical law.”

 

“Well ain’t that a club to the teeth,” Gamzee muses. “How old they diggin’ back to find it?”

 

“Older than Meenah, probubbly,” you say. “But they’re scared of her, so I can’t sea them trying to pull this kind of nonsense with her back when she was in full power.” You draw into yourself. You don’t like being reminded of how much your own people don’t trust you or rely on you. Not that you’ve had a chance to earn that trust or reliance, but you’re afraid that you’re botching it now. You wish you were more like Karcrab or Aradia, you think wistfully. They’re both born leaders. You’re just a silly little troll with no sense.

 

“Hey,” Gamzee says gently, and his hand encircles your chin and raises it like he’s about to paint your face again. “Feferi, sister, you gotta school them bad thoughts back down. You’re a princess born. What rules you live by are your own, what’ll best help your Empire. Ain’t no crusty old dignitary can tell you what to do if you don’t wanna.” His fingers tighten almost painfully on your chin, eyes growing distracted. In another moment they clear, and he blinks at you, then smiles kinda sheepishly. “Sorry, Fef-sis, I done forgot what I was sayin’.”

 

You smile back and carefully put your hand around his wrist, taking his fingers off your face and not so close to your jugular.

 

“Thanks, Clamzee,” you say, and then send him off to bed. Once he’s cleared out you wash your face (after taking a few shellfies) and lie alone in bed, thinking.

 

It’s not that you don’t like Karkat. You do! You’re just not sure if you’re ready for such a big physical step. On the night of the quadrantlocking, you’d psyched yourself up for it, told yourself it was for the good of all trolls. But then Karkat hadn’t wanted to, and so you didn’t.

 

You wonder about the lengths you would go to in order to keep your kingdoms safe, and think that when it comes down to it, your personal wishes don’t matter. If pressed, you’ll do whatever it takes. Even if that means pailing Karkat when you’re not ready.

 

Feeling sick and small inside, you roll over and try to sleep. It’s a long time coming.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, biznatches, I bet you thought you saw the last of me!
> 
> (In all seriousness, it's been two years and I'm sorry for that, because real life is a beast, but I hope this will help soothe some of that irreversible psychological damage)
> 
> (Or not. ;P )
> 
> Warning for some sudden gore and horror in this chapter.

==>Karkat: Get caught up

 

You wake up warm and squashed and it’s the best you’ve felt in days.

 

Yesterday morning you let yourself be talked into a giant cuddle puddle with your clade, which hasn’t happened since before your quadrantlocking. It’s dim in Tavros’ room, which has the biggest bed (besides yours, but you’re not gonna kick Feferi out just so you can get some quality time with your friends, that’s rude). You try to figure out what it is that woke you, then realize the alarm you set on your palmhusk is buzzing. Medication time, fun.

 

You peel yourself out from the middle, wiping some of Sollux’s drool from your neck and hoping you didn’t lean on Aradia’s hair too much, and climb over Kanaya and Tavros’ legs to reach your palmhusk. You’re feeling a bit more limber after that good long sleep, but your legs still quiver when you stand up. Nepeta’s head lifts from Tavros’ chest, and she blinks muzzily at you. You mime drinking, and she nods, burying her face back where it was.

 

You look at all of them and feel a fond ache in your blood-pusher. You didn’t talk much last night. The way you had someone’s hand on you at all times was enough. You look at Sollux and your cheeks heat up some. You can’t believe you auspistized him and Eridan right there in front of everybody. What a shameless nookface you are.

 

You slip on your robe and slippers, which someone must have brought in during the day, and pad silently out into the hall, making for the mediculler wing.

 

The docterrorist who’s been handling your recovery hands you your pills, and you swig them down with water. According to her, you’ll be taking these for a few weeks, just to make sure the grafts take and the other bits of you heal up right. Also, you’re on a special diet. It tastes like hoofbeast rectum. You said so and Equius popped out in sweat.

 

You contemplate going back to bed, but you’re awake, so might as well see if your breakfast is ready.

 

To your surprise, Eridan is sitting at one of the tables, staring into a steaming cup of coffee. You poke your head into the kitchen. The cook hands you a tray, and you look at the soup and sigh. Yay, more fluids.

 

You sit down across from Eridan, and he looks up, startled.

 

“What’s eating you?” you ask, stirring your soup and wondering if you could get away with salt.

 

“Nothin’,” Eridan says.

 

“Bullcrap. Fess up,” you say, taking a sip. Ugh.

 

He looks down at his caffeine sludge.

 

“Have you ever said somethin’ you regret,” he says, “but it’s already out in the open an you can’t take it back?”

 

“Every night,” you say. “Look, if this is about what you said yesterday, you knew better when you opened your mouth. That was gross and offensive stuff.”

 

“I know,” he says, tired. You look at him.

 

“Did you sleep at all?”

 

“Not really.” He takes a sip of sludge. “Been tryin’ to figure out how to apologize.”

 

“Sorry is a good way to start,” you say. “I don’t think he’ll accept it, but—”

 

“He?” Eridan says blankly, then shakes his head. “Sol. Right. Yeah.”

 

“Who did _you_ mean?” you ask. You’re missing something.

 

“Nobody,” he says, too quickly, and his cheeks go violet. “But, yeah, Sol too. That was out a line a me to say stuff like that to him.” He curls his fingers around his mug. “Got any advice for that, Kar? As our auspistice?”

 

Auspistice. Ugh. You can’t believe you got suckered into that position. But you eat some soup and think about it.

 

“If you’re really sorry,” you say, “first you’ve gotta say it. You’ve gotta grovel some. Then you’ve gotta let time heal the wound, if it was really bad. Sometimes people just need space to work through their anger and hurt before it’ll heal.”

 

Eridan’s face is miserable, but he nods.

 

“Thanks,” he says. “For talkin’ to me.”

 

You shrug and go back to your awful bland soup. “I’ve done it enough times to know what it feels like. It sucks.”

 

“Suppose,” he says, “suppose you say somethin’ hurtful to someone you love.”

 

You glance at him. “Like what?”

 

“Just hurtful,” he says. “Really glubbin’ stupid. An they won’t let you apologize. But you’re sorry, sorrier than you’ve ever been. What do you do then?”

 

You shrug again. “Gotta give ‘em space,” you repeat. “If you really love them, and they know you’re sorry, then you’ve got to let them forgive you on their time. Sometimes, if what you said is dumb enough, it could damage the relationship.” He flinches, his fins drooping. He looks so pathetic you actually feel sorry for him. “But sometimes, going through the forgiveness process makes it stronger,” you say. “The relationship, I mean. Just depends.”

 

Eridan nods, and takes another drink from his mug. You drain your bowl and start working on your toast, also devoid of seasoning.

 

“You’ve also got to not say something like that again,” you say, and Eridan looks up. You swallow your mouthful of food. “Seriously. If you just say stuff because you wanted a reaction, and it hurts people you care about, don’t ever say it again. If it’s stuff you believe, then you need a reality check and a slap upside the head, both of which I’m willing to provide.” You fix him with a hard look. He looks back, then away, chewing his lip.

 

“I did,” he says. “For a while. We all did. An it’s gonna come out now an then. But I’m tryin’. Is that enough?”

 

“If you’re really trying,” you say, “yeah. Change takes time, man, it’s not going to happen overday. But you wreck everything you’re working for when you run your mouth. Feel me?”

 

Eridan nods. “Just weird,” he says. “We were taught for as long as we’ve been alive what lowb—warmbloods were like. Then we meet all a you and suddenly it’s like the galaxy’s tipped on its head.”

 

“We had an idea of what coldbloods were like beforehand, too,” you shrug. “And you’re starting to prove all of us wrong. I think you call that progress.” You push your empty tray away. “It’s not just you going through this, alright? And I’m sure it’s not just you running your gogawful mouth. The thing about it is, if we keep letting this stuff slide, it’ll keep happening.” You stand up. “Start by apologizing. Then change the behavior. That’s how you become better.”

 

Eridan nods, and you take your tray back to the kitchen. Then you go back to your block.

 

Feferi is still asleep, her hand curled childlike under her cheek, her hair spread out and spilling over the side of the bed. Your blood-pusher throbs once, hard enough to make your breath stutter.

 

Your legs are shaking, so you go ahead and sit on your side of the bed, leaning against the headboard and watching your matesprit sleep. It’s weird, you’ve never really thought of her as your matesprit before in more than a technical sense, but since she saved your life, it’s been…easier. You reach for her. Hesitate.

 

Your hesitation costs you. Feferi yawns, and her eyes flutter open. You hurriedly put your hand back in your lap.

 

“Evenin’,” Feferi says, her voice slurred with sleep. You quirk a half-smile at her, and she scoots her way over to you, propping herself up with more pillows. She grins. “How’d you sleep?”

 

“Fine,” you say quietly, and give in to temptation, reaching out again and stroking some of her hair back from her face. Her fins flutter when you detangle a few strands from around the delicate fronds. Her eyes slide half-shut and her smile deepens. A sigh almost like a purr slips from her lips.

 

“Good,” she says. When you take your hand out of her hair she makes a disgruntled little pouting noise. Your stomach twists, and you go back to running your fingers through her thick smooth hair. Her face relaxes again.

 

It’s a comfortable silence, even when Feferi shifts her head right into your lap so you can reach her hair easier. You study her profile as silky strands of hair slip through your claws—the gentle slope of her horns, dark freckles across her nose and cheeks, the line of her brow, curve of her jaw and roundness of her lips. Her bottom lip is a little fuller than her upper. You don’t know why that’s a detail you’re storing away, just like you’re not sure why the freckles on her shoulders are somehow just as intriguing. The tyrian tinge to her gill slits and the fuchsia membranes of her fins just serve to remind you how different she is from you, how much more powerful. Her caste has always been known for enchanting with its longevity and natural charisma, but it’s not just her blood color, you decide as she gives a little sighing purr again when you brush her fin with your thumb. It’s that Feferi, herself, is a very beautiful troll.

 

“Thank you,” you murmur. Feferi cracks her eyes open and looks up at you.

 

“What for?” she says, and honestly sounds confused.

 

You sigh through your nose.

 

“For not letting me die.” You cut your eyes away, because for some reason this is unbearably embarrassing. “I haven’t. Uh. Haven’t had a chance to thank you for that. So. Thanks.”

 

Feferi sits up, and her cool hand slides against your cheek, gently rotating your head to face her.

 

“You’re welcome,” she says softly. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

 

You note the specific choice of words. Normal trolls say _pump-beat_. Hearts are saved for…well…special flushed-sort of occasions. Her thumb traces a path across your cheekbone. Then her other hand comes up, cupping your face. Your blood-pusher speeds up, thumping hard in your chest. She could easily tear your head from your shoulders like this, but there’s no strength in her fingers. It’s almost like she’s holding something fragile, something glass.

 

Slowly, very slowly, she leans in, and you do too.

 

A loud knock at the door, followed by it swinging open, has you scrambling backwards. Yelping, Feferi tips forward and faceplants in your lap.

 

“I can come back later, if it pleases you,” Terezi cackles from the doorway, and you shoot her a foul look, a foul hand gesture, and are opening your mouth to finish the trifecta with foul language when she taps her claws against the tablet she’s carrying. “Meetings begin in half an hour, lovegrubs. Don’t be late.”

 

You clear your throat and scoot all the way off the bed, getting dressed in record time and not bothering to comb your hair as you high-tail it out of the block, face still burning bright red. You don’t look at Feferi once.

 

==>

 

Aradia stands up and cheers when you hobble into the conference room, and you crack a rusty smile at her as you fall into your chair. Two seats down, Gamzee’s hand spasms. What an odd detail to pick up on.

 

Feferi takes her place at the other end, composed and regal, and clears her throat primly. “Shall we get started?”

 

“Yeah,” you say. “Alright, catch me up. What’s happened?”

 

“Well, decision-wise, we’ve been holding off on finalizing most treaty conditions until your recovery,” Terezi says, thumbing through her tablet, “though we were under considerable stress to keep the treaty in working order, as I understand.”

 

You blink, then look at Tavros. To your surprise, he gives you a steady look and a slight smile.

 

“The Head Elders paid us a visit,” Kanaya says quietly. “They had some concerns. And some news.”

 

“Oh?” you say.

 

“We,” Kanaya starts, then hesitates, looking at Eridan, of all people. Even more astonishing, Eridan nods. “They said that the citizenry are on the verge of revolt against the treaty, and further reports from the Empire say that the colony planets are also planning a calculated strike. We believe your attack was supposed to be the official declaration, though with the botched way it was carried out and then handed to the press, most of the Nation believes you were stabbed by your matesprit in cold blood.” You frown, looking up the table at Feferi. She doesn’t look at you, instead rapt with attention and staring almost too hard at Kanaya.

 

“The Elders were naturally upset about this,” Kanaya continues, “and were very strongly insisting upon abandoning the treaty, making Tavros the new face of the Nation’s leadership, and I suppose using your martyrdom as leverage.” At that you scowl, chewing on the inside of your cheek in an effort to stay silent. “It has been…hinted…that our refusal to be compliant to their wishes may result in catastrophic damage to the political environment of the Nation.”

 

You huff a laugh. “Yeah. A public split could shatter everything we worked to build. Did you talk Payter over, Kanaya?”

 

“Not exactly,” she shrugs. “I told her that it was a consequence we were prepared to face and that if she wanted to avoid it, then she would be the one budging, not us. Time will tell what that will do, but for now, our focus needs to be on either preventing galactic war or preparing for it.”

 

You take a sip of water and feel a dull ache all through your insides. It can’t be medication time already. “Any word from the rebels?”

 

“None,” Terezi says, “which is odd, I think, given that they are the most likely culprits to have ordered the attack.” Some dark mutters pass around the table, and you try to glare at the source, but can’t seem to pinpoint it. “Assuming it wasn’t anyone in this room, which is a solid assumption, in my book.”

 

You grunt, which you mean to be agreement, but the looks some of the cooler-blooded individuals in the room throw your way may hint that it was more ambiguous than you thought. Whatever. “So. What’s our plan?”

 

Another round of looks at the table, and Terezi clears her throat.

 

“You might want to sit back and get comfortable for this,” she says, and you release a long sigh through your nose.

 

==>

 

Your docterrorist insists on you sleeping in the mediculler wing today for ease of access, and you comply with much grumbling and swearing. You hate the hospital gown. But you resign yourself to it, since your guts were on absolute fire earlier tonight, and settle back in your pillows to rot your brain with some quality television.

 

A soft tap on the door cuts through your obsessive catch-up on your soaps, and you mash the mute button. “Come in.”

 

The door edges open, and a single purple eye stares shyly at you from around the edge of the doorway. You…are not annoyed. Huh.

 

“Permission to get my loathsome self up in your presence, bro,” the strangely quiet voice comes, and you furrow your brow.

 

“Yeah,” you say, and Gamzee slips in, closing the door quietly. He has a plate in his hand. On this plate is the most monstrous heap of what appears to be grubloaf, peanut butter, and jelly grubs you have ever seen. Did he…make you a sandwich? That’s. It’s. It’s strangely sweet. Strawberry jelly grubs. Your favorite.

 

He mutely offers you the plate, and you shake your head.

 

“Can’t be on solids yet,” you say, which, rather than wiping the morose and hurt expression from his face, seems to make him more melancholy. He plops himself right on the ground and sets to eating the sticky mess himself, face-first. You should be disgusted by the slurping going on, or offended that he would so rudely eat what you can’t yet right in front of you, but the feeling in your gut is more peaceful. Fond, almost. His ribs seem to loom over his practically concave belly. He needs that sandwich more than you do, to be honest.

 

“Was there something you needed?” you ask gruffly. Gamzee shakes his head, wiping jelly stains from around his mouth. The two of you sit in awkward silence. You yawn.

 

“Well, if there’s nothing you needed,” you say, and Gamzee chews his lip. “I, uh. I need to sleep.”

 

Gamzee leaps up as if scalded. “Right, bro, right. I.”

 

He stares somewhere at your blanket-covered knees, and you seem fixated on a truly hellacious tangle in his hair right around his horns. If you had a comb with you right now…

 

“Bye,” Gamzee says, and practically runs out of the room. You look over at the plate he left behind, and feel your throat clog up at the messily-drawn diamond shapes traced in the sandwich remains. What a dweeb. What an absolutely hopeless mess. If every angle of his body didn’t scream “help” you would be repulsed.

 

Too many feelings in one night. You shut off your TV and squeeze your eyes shut. No more feelings. Only sleep now.

 

Sleep comes quickly in your medicated state, and you do not dream.

 

==>Vriska: Be Shady

 

Hey, let’s get one thing straight—you are not _shady_. You are purposeful, mysterious, and also hella cool. Not shady.

 

But, okay, communicating through a covert darknet chatroom Captor himself would never discover is a little suspicious.

 

**CASSEIOPEIA SYSTEM COMMUNICATIONS SEVERED. FULL REFUND DEMANDED.**

 

Well, that was expected, if late in coming. You authorize the refund. You have other irons in your fire to worry about, bigger and scarier irons.

 

**TROJAN SYSTEM SHIPMENTS DELIVERED. PAYMENT RECEIVED. WELL DONE, CAPTAIN.**

 

Well, it certainly is nice to be appreciated for your genius. You’d gloat, but as important as that particular iron is, there are still bigger irons. You scan the steady stream of trade agreements and fractures and log it all away as garbage. Crunch time is bearing down on you. What news is there about…

 

**DRACONIAN DEPUTY COMMUNICATION LINK: ACCEPTED. TRADE CHANNEL APPROVED. WELL DONE, CAPTAIN.**

Good, took him long enough. Ugh. Aliens. You roll your eyes and continue reading. To your eye, it looks like your covert trade network is operating smoothly. That doesn’t stop a bead of sweat from working its way down your back as you get up to speed on the fringe planet dealings. You’ve been prodding at them for a while now, just a gentle nudge, really. It’s generous to call planets that far away Imperial property, at least in your mind, but you don’t run the joint. Or, you do, just not that part of it. A bloated Empire is easier to undermine. There’s so much of it to weigh itself down with. Kick a few main supports hard enough, and the whole place crumples. It’s been your job description for over four sweeps now to guard those supports, but no one said anything about molding the structure to make the supports more solid. So: you’re just gonna steer things to your benefit.

 

Feferi will thank you one day, because one night very soon she’s gonna be Empress, and you’re going to hand her a kingdom vastly slimmed down and more efficient than the one her predecessor built. Space is huge; one species can’t rule it all. The farther you spread, the harder it is to hold, and the harder it is to hold, the less money you make. It’s only fair, really, that you help the Empire get back to its roots. What are a few armed insurrections between star systems? You attract more flies with honey than vinegar, but you catch far more in a strategically-placed invisible web. Your lusus taught you well.

 

Not saying that if you get caught before it’s all done and you have time to package it all up you couldn’t be tried for treason, but hey, legality is Terezi’s thing, not yours.

 

The codenamed Trojan System lapped up their honey with no regard for the spider silk, just as you planned. Contact with the Draconian Deputy was an unexpected bonus. But the most important iron in your fire: figuring out exactly what that douche the Grand Highblood is up to. He was never even a blip on your radar until now. Your sources say he’s on his own private ship orbiting Derse, which concerns you greatly. Putting two and two together, you’d say the rebellion currently ongoing is either his fault, or something he’s very interested in, and either way it’s bad for you. He’s a wildcard, exactly how Gamzee used to be before whatever is in the water at this stupid place turned him into a gelatinous quiver of emotions. Honestly, he used to be so much more in command of himself, at least. You can’t count the times you’ve passed him in the halls at day, staring into space and his claws dripping purple. Should you be more concerned? Probably. Are you? No. He isn’t your problem.

 

No, your problem is his ancestor, you grump, putting your brain back on track. Word on the street—the very well-informed insider street—is that the Grand Highblood exposed Her Imperious Condescension to the bacteria eating her alive, then fled when she became too weak to stand. Why? Why would he leave right when his plan started to produce fruit? Assuming the throne was his goal, of course. He could scare up the support with very little trouble at all, even among seadwellers. What could he want out of the Empress’ death other than her job?

 

Too many unknowns. You need to set aside time to pick Terezi’s brain about it, assuming you can get her away from that walking, talking toothpick she’s waxing pale for. She’s become so unreliable lately, honestly. Everyone has. When you first arrived on this dump of a planet you had a goal, or at least a unifying ideology. Introduce some lowbloods into the scenario and it all goes to hell. You’d think you were all six sweeps old and putting on a LARP campaign instead of trying to run actual countries.

 

Everyone else’s immaturity and hormones aside (and steadfastly ignoring that you went and filled a quadrant yourself, Serket, albeit the weirdest quadrant and with _Equius_ of all people), you’d say you all got lucky. This should’ve erupted in bloodshed weeks ago. Much like the bloodshed going down in several star systems currently. You stare at your husktop for another minute, then sign off on several orders to pull some strings and get troops moved around. You’re going to need them elsewhere soon.

 

That done, you sign off, close the husktop, and replace it in one of its many hiding places in your block. You stretch, hear several joints pop, and grunt, checking the clock. Middle of the day, as you expected. You contemplate sleep, then tie a thin robe around yourself and go walking.

 

While you like to play it completely cool at all times, truthfully, it does bother you somewhat that an assassin got in so easily. Karkat’s life means very little to you, but his influence—that’s something worth keeping alive, at least. If you could harvest that for yourself you’d kill the nubby freak yourself, but let’s get out of the wiggler daydreams, Vriska, you can’t absorb someone’s talents by killing them. Now for something way more important: midday snack.

 

Surprisingly, you don’t run into Gamzee this time around. He’s been stalking around a lot lately, like a creepy creeper who creeps. You probably already ruminated on him, didn’t you? You’re tired, so sue you for forgetting the finer details of your mental rambling. Anyway, no Gamzee, no anybody, really. The servants you more or less tune out are also gone. That’s…odd. But not unheard of, they’re trolls too and probably need sleep or something.

 

Your usual route to the food block takes you by a certain hallway, and upon approaching it, you skid to a stop, your stomach roiling. You can feel something wrong pouring out of it like an oil slick, coating the inside of your brain with horror and drying out your mouth. You will yourself to take another step. Just one more step, and you’ll be past the hall, and you…

 

Your feet do move, but to take you down the hall, wading through the invisible force pooling in your gut, and in the dim part of your mind that’s still functioning logically you realize it’s the chapel hall, and you’re walking right towards it. You frantically try to disengage your mind, but it’s caught in the whirlpool. Having a sensitivity for it will do that. You just haven’t had to face this in so long…

 

You make yourself stop just short of the door, sweating with the effort, grinding your teeth and probably cutting up your palms with your claws as you clench your hands. Through your mind’s eye (x8) you can see everything that’s happening just inside the chapel, you don’t need the physical proof. You can see the shimmering images of blood dripping down the walls, far more blood than is in a single troll, and in a variety of colors. You can hear the disembodied clown laughter, the horns, the bent figure at the center of it all bowing but not out of respect. You can hear the voices he hears, but you don’t understand it, not because it’s speaking a different language, but because you…just…can’t comprehend it. Your brain can’t process whatever terrors are in those words.

 

It boils, this miasma, whispering and shouting at the same time, and you can’t look away. But you have to try, you think, fighting the current, now biting down on your lip hard enough that you can feel the blood starting to dribble down your chin, but you can’t feel the pain of it. There’s so much else that hurts—whiplashes, unbearable flames around your wrists and ankles, arrows thunking into your lungs, skin peeling away from flesh away from bones, a thousand horrors and you—can’t—

 

All of a sudden it snaps off, and you don’t remember falling. You come to on the ground, your hands and lip stinging, your body fine but mind still echoing with the visions of pain. You can hear the wheezing inside the chapel, the broken sobs, and pull yourself together before you yourself make a noise and give yourself away, if your presence in the maelstrom wasn’t noticed already. You crawl out of the hallway and it’s a few more feet before you stand. You leave blue streaks on the walls and don’t care. You go back to your block, lock the door, crawl into the shower, and turn it on full blast. You don’t get out until the water runs achingly cold.

 

You should probably tell someone about this, you think, forcing yourself to dry your hair so you’re not curling up in your bed a sopping mess. You probably really should, you think as you smooth on two sopor patches. You should, you think as you drift off to sleep.

 

Two sopor patches aren’t enough to drown the monster living in Gamzee Makara’s pan.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a gift from me this holiday season. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays!

==>Eridan: Sulk

 

It ain’t sulking. It’s…you don’t know what it is, but for the fourth day in a row you’re camped out in front of Terezi’s door, knowing she knows you’re out here, throat raw from apologizing to the flat wood and hearing Troll Judge Judy in the background. She doesn’t even tell you to go away. No acknowledgement at all.

 

You’d rather she’d yell. Scream. Hit you. At least then she’d be treating you like you exist, like you’re a flesh-and-blood troll right in front of her and everything. You deserve this, you know you do, and you know good and well that sulking—that _staying_ in front of her door is in direct violation of the secrecy agreement of your matespritship, but you’ve been begging her for weeks to go public with it, to stand beside you and tell the worlds “I picked this idiot, this idiot is my idiot, get your own.”

 

There are two things Terezi Pyrope hates most in this world. The first is broccoli. The second is being underestimated, underappreciated, undervalued. Called useless. Reduced to nothing. You know that more than anyone—you’ve helped her, gog, you’ve talked for hours in delegate meetings just to give her extra time, you warmed up the crowd for her show and made sure they listened to her. Maybe once you would’ve taken credit for that. But you were young, and stupid, and hadn’t single-handedly ruined the best thing in your life out of stupid _jealousy_.

 

You can’t even feel good and smug about filling all your quadrants. Not when you ruined one to fall into the other. As right as it feels to have Karkat’s steadying hand thwack the back of your head before you say something…less-than-intelligent…to Sollux, it’s soured by not having Terezi’s arms around your neck. As happy and loose as Kanaya’s smile makes you, as fired-up as Nepeta’s stupid cat puns get you, it all pales if you don’t have Terezi. And not in the good way.

 

Troll Judge Judy turns off. She’s asleep. You know her routine like the back of your hand, clockwork: turn on Troll Judge Judy, brush teeth, put on sleep shirt, crawl under covers, cackle for an hour, put on sopor patch, have TV set to turn off after another two hours, snore through the last thirty minutes. It’s late enough that the usual lurkers in the halls are lurking elsewhere. Hooded trolls about their daily duties have passed you by without stopping. You fancy you’re wearing an oily hole in the wall by lolling your head on it. You shut your eyes, breathing, resolving to get up and go back to your own block in a few minutes, when something pokes your cheek hard.

 

Your eyes snap open and you snarl, only to see it’s Nepeta. You continue your snarl, and she smiles, and it makes you feel stupid so you stop snarling.

 

“You’re blocking the pawl,” she says sweetly, “basshole.”

 

The one pun she makes that isn’t meowbeast-related, and it’s a personally-crafted insult just for you. You hate her so much. “Step over me, it’s not like my legs are all that tall, even for you.”

 

She stands, steps one foot across you, then suddenly turns and drops her full weight into your lap. Several things are crushed. Your eyes water, but you do your best not to make a sound. Sounds are weakness. She grins, wriggles herself into a comfortable position (as comfortable as it can be, sitting on you while your back is against a wall), then pulls your hair.

 

“You’re sulking,” she says, and you fume. You’re not _sulking_. “Weird place to do it, Ampurra.”

 

“I sulk where I please,” you retort, and, ugh, she made you admit it. You’re totally sulking. You put your hands on her hips, ready to throw her if need be. Then you explore up her shirt a little, just to see if she’ll let you. She will, it turns out. To a point. She bites your nose when you go too far up, so you stay in safe territory. Her elbows are planted on your shoulders, her face is very close to yours, and she is still smiling. “What do you want, Nep.”

 

“Nothin’,” she says, in clear mockery of your accent. You apply a little claw pressure in your salacious exploration of her skin, and she nips you again, this time on the jaw. You take that as permission. After a moment of that, her mouth finally engages in something more useful: attacking yours with gusto, a gusto that surprised you when she first did it, but you’re more than hungry for now, after days of frustration and hurt pride and a lot of other negative feelings you want to sort out. Sounds are weakness, you remind yourself as her claws dig into your scalp, but now and then a little vulnerability is fine in a blackrom—

 

“If you don’t mind,” a voice says sternly, “some of us are trying to sleep.”

 

Nepeta moves off of you so quickly it’s like she was never there. “I’m sorry, Terezi,” she says innocently, and Terezi doesn’t smile, her hair mussed and eyes half-closed with exhaustion. She’s been working herself too hard again, you can see it in her face. “It won’t happen again.”

 

“I’m sure it won’t,” Terezi says, then cracks a small grin. “See you tomorrow, Nepeta.”

 

“Sleep well!” Nepeta calls as Terezi shuts the door, and as it shuts, Nepeta gives you a Look. You know varying degrees of the Look from different people, but it all essentially means the same thing. You immediately break eye contact, stand, and start shuffling off to your own block. You hear Nepeta start to say something, but when you turn around, she shakes her head and leaves in the opposite direction.

 

You just can’t catch a break, can you?

 

==>

 

Evening is terrible, like always. You fetch Karkat’s tray for him and bring it to him in the cafeteria, then nurse your caffeine sludge and half-listen to conversations around you. Now and then Kanaya will pass and pat your shoulder, and Nepeta will flick your horn, but you are aching with the missing piece that would make all of that so much better. She’s sitting two tables down, laughing at something, she’s always laughing. Karkat glances at you now and then, which you only notice because of his reflection in your untouched silverware.

 

You can tell you’re letting yourself go a bit. You should be polished. You should be happy. You have three— _three_ —quadrants newly filled. You should be in Bliss City, easily the most deliriously euphoric troll in the room. Instead, your hair is lank, your shirt is rumpled, your coat has an unsightly food stain on the lapel you can’t be bothered about, and the dark violet rings under your eyes probably don’t help. Not your fault you can’t sleep. You’re not used to sleeping alone. Not every night.

 

You guess, technically, your pale quadrant with Kanaya is still in the courting stages. It’s premature to call that one filled, because if it were, she’d wrestle you into a pile faster than you could think to protest. Or that’s what the finest troll entertainment has taught you. Real life is quickly and painfully letting you know that the finest troll entertainment is written by a bunch of liars and hacks. But nevertheless, your courting is going successfully, so what’s the harm in thinking of her as your moirail already? In the middle of your mental spirals you hear that both Gamzee and Vriska are calling in sick for the night. That’s one spymaster and the Mirthful liaison gone, your General mind thinks. You can probably struggle through without them. Tonight’s meetings are more tedious lawmaking, meaning tedious arguments about tedious details with tedious dignitaries and Council representatives. You might call in sick, yourself, except you’re already here so you may as well do your job. You dip your napkin in Karkat’s water glass and dab at the food stain until it’s faded, then run your fingers through your hair a few times. It’ll have to do.

 

As expected, the night drags. You argue with Tavros no less than seven times over import/export minutia, win some, concede others. Looks like terraforming the Alternian wastelands is the best you could do for getting coldbloods back on home soil, though the seas are rightfully back in your hands (once those are also made habitable). Not a bad start, actually. And with Nation crops and precious metals flowing into Empire hands, those losses on the Fringe you keep incurring are less harmful. You received several emails about pulling troops entirely from a few star systems, and upon reviewing the information, think it’s probably a good idea. You want to clear it with Fef first, but with so much to do, it’s nearly morning before you find the time.

 

“Fef, if I could glub in your ear for a minute,” you say, and Feferi looks up from her palmhusk. You notice she was trying extra hard to be polite to Karkat while still avoiding him. Everyone noticed. Hard not to, really, that the two people in charge of the whole thing haven’t spoken in a few nights. But other problems, less important.

 

“Sure, Erifin,” she says, and you sit down in the chair next to her, your palmhusk in hand.

 

“I’ve gotten in the Fringe reports for the last quarter,” you say, showing her the emails queued up on your email app (the secured Empirical email, not your personal email, what are you, some kind of guppy). “They aren’t lookin’ good. The captains in charge a the different worlds are suggestin’ we abandon ship.”

 

“Reely?” Feferi says, plucking your palmhusk from your hand and scanning the emails herself. “That’s…weird. Have you noticed that’s the fourth time this sweep we’ve pulled away from the Fringe? And this is substantial, not just a planet or two.”

 

“It is weird,” you agree. “But probubbly necessary at this point. Shall I authorize the retreat?”

 

Feferi bites on her lip. You can almost hear what’s going on in her head: she’s hearing every time the Empress said Fef was gonna let the Empire fall to ruin, hearing what a weak failure she is. You wish you knew what to say to let her know she isn’t even close, but there’s a reason you and Fef ain’t moirails and sure as shell aren’t matesprits.

 

“Hold off for now,” she says, and you swallow down your protests. “Let me think aboat it, and I’ll give you a final answer tomorrow.”

 

You stand, then turn back. “We shouldn’t take too long decidin’,” you tell her. “There’s valuable troll lives at stake. That’s manpower we could use here.”

 

She nods. “I know. I promise, in the evening. Don’t do anemonething without my say-so. I need to consult Terezi first.” She frowns. “Unless you already did?”

 

“Didn’t,” you say, and shove your palmhusk in your pocket. “Thank you for your time.”

 

You check the time and sigh. It’s getting on in the morning, nearly seven o’clock. Your back hurts. Your brain hurts. You’d like very much to take a hot shower and curl up in bed with the troll you’re so flushed for it physically hurts to be apart from her like this. You’ll settle for the hot shower and flipping through CruelTube videos, and start to make your way there. Food is unappetizing to you right now.

 

“Eridan,” someone says, and touches your arm, and you jerk to a stop. “Could I speak with you?”

 

“Sure, Kan, sure,” you say, wincing over how you trip over your words, at your eagerness, at the…you-ness…of it all. Kanaya fits her hand into the crook of your arm, which you offer belatedly, and sets off walking. You just follow along.

 

“You’re unlike yourself,” she says, and your guts clench. “You’ve been somewhat off-kilter since the altercation with Sollux. Are you alright?”

 

“Fine,” you say automatically. “Got Kar auspistizing that right up. Never been better.”

 

“And you’re certain you’re satisfied with that arrangement?” Kanaya says, an undercurrent of sharpness in her voice that makes you internally flinch. “You’re happy?”

 

“Sure am,” you say, this time too casually. “I mean. No, I am really glubbin’ happy Kar stepped in, we needed the help. I’ve got Kar for an auspistice and Nep—I mean—”

 

“I believe we’re all aware of the pitch sparks flying between you and Nepeta,” Kanaya says, and she’s amused, thank gog. “So that’s at least two quadrants going well for you.”

 

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly unsure of everything in your life ever. Does she not feel the same way? Have you been throwing yourself at her with no regard for how stupid you look? Oh gog she hates you, and not in the fun way or the friendly way, it’s—

 

Her fingers press gently into the muscle of your arm, and you stop, breaking off your thought mid-sentence and staring at her owlishly. She has that measuring look on her face again, studying you hard with that penetrating green gaze of hers, and you try your best not to shrink or cower. You’re a grown troll, for glub’s sake. Your latest spiral into self-loathing grinds to a halt when Kanaya’s hand reaches for your face, then stops short. She’s not too much shorter than you, really, but when she tips your chin up to look her in the eyes, you feel small, but not in the bad way.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kanaya says gently, and you swallow hard. You would love nothing more than to lay all of your heinous musclebeast crap at her feet, to cry yourself out and have her stroke your hair back from your puffy face and tell you it’s okay. But that’s probably not what she’s asking, and even if she was, there’s a difference between lurking at your matesprit’s door and outright telling someone your shared secret. You may never speak to Terezi again, at this rate, but you’re not gonna betray her trust. Not again.

 

So you shoulder your heinous musclebeast crap and give Kanaya a worn smile. “Not really, Kan, thanks for offerin’. You’re kind.”

 

“Not nearly as kind as I should be,” she says wryly, and you won’t pretend you understand what she’s on about. “If you ever need to talk…you know where my block is.”

 

You swallow frustrated, exhausted, heartbroken tears and hope to gog they aren’t gleaming in your eyes like this is a bad romcom. “I know. Thanks.”

 

You see she’s walked you to your block. That’s chivalrous of her. She pats your arm, eyes lingering on your face, and then turns and walks away. Green-blooded girls will be the death of you yet, you think as you turn and enter your block, settling in for another sleepless day even though it’s still early in the morning.

 

==>Payter: Rage

 

Your name is Payter Simune and you will do nothing of the kind. You are an old woman, for one. Raging is beneath you. For another, you’re a respected and venerable political leader, and raging is still beneath you.

 

But you will spitefully chew your food and passive-aggressively slam doors in the shared communal space you and your cohorts occupy, until Zhudis pops his head out of his respite block, irritable.

 

“It’s been over a week,” he snarls. “Surely we’ve moved past passive-aggression and into full aggression.”

 

“Full aggression is not in our job description,” you say calmly as the door to the cabinet you’re perusing shuts much louder than intended. “I’m simply looking for my journal. It’s missing.”

 

“It’s open on your desk in the productivity block, where you left it,” Zhudis says, and exits his block. Together you walk towards the productivity block, a small square room with a fireplace and antique electric lighting. All three of you have desks in the room, but yours is by far the biggest and most cluttered. Zhudis settles in a spare chair, continuing to glare, dressed in his pajamas. “The Scion has been awake for a week. Surely that’s enough time to reach out and try to make their idiot child brains see sense.”

 

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Daryus says in the corner, and you jump, because Daryus is a quiet troll and you often forget his presence in a room (any room). “They’ve had a hard ordeal, after all. Some time for their blood to settle and their minds to realign with their hearts will do them good.”

 

Zhudis snorts. “As if.” He throws down on your desk the latest report from the summit, printed for the benefit of his eyeglasses. Where he stored it, you don’t want to know, because it wasn’t in his hands when he left his block. “They solidified eighteen treaty conditions just today. They’re not stopping, Daryus. They’re moving forward without supervision, like the most tiresome of wigglers.”

 

“The power to finalize the conditions is still in our hands,” Daryus says serenely, lacing his fingers over his ample stomach. “It would be easy to send them back into negotiations until they reach a position we’re more comfortable with.”

 

“Comfort or not,” you say, sitting behind your desk and rubbing your eyes, “in all technicality, they hold the cards.”

 

Daryus opens his mouth, then closes it, looking thoughtful. Zhudis, looking through the report again, snorts.

 

“What makes you say that?” Daryus asks.

 

“Our constitution,” you say, and Zhudis snorts again. Daryus tilts his head, puzzled. You frown, but if you have to spell it out for him, so be it. You’re all getting on in sweeps anyway; Daryus is the youngest of the three of you, but if you’re frank, his faculties are mere sweeps away from failing entirely. “When the Nation was founded—when the Empire was chased off the planet and we were left to organize ourselves as warmbloods—the Disciple herself was brought in as a key consultant for the original Council, as you well know.”

 

“She wrote the constitution, by all accounts,” Zhudis mutters, turning a page. “Stubborn old hag.”

 

You glare at him. Zhudis doesn’t even look up, but makes a rude gesture. Clearly letting him be in charge of the Scion’s political education was a mistake for both parties. You shake your head and continue. “At the time, it was common belief that the Signless and his entourage would rise again at some point in the future. The Second Coming, they called it. The Disciple was a main propagator of this belief, and accordingly, she wrote in provisions regarding it that the original Council accepted as law. By tradition we have honored its presence in our governing body, though by the third turnover it was largely respect for the Disciple and our heritage that kept the provisions in place.”

 

“I’m aware of the provisions,” Daryus says mildly. “But surely they aren’t still legally binding.”

 

“Would we be having this conversation if they weren’t?” Zhudis grumbles, still re-reading his report. “The provisions are quite clear. At the advent of the Second Coming, all authority transfers to the clade. The Council’s purpose from that point on is to serve as…well…counsel. But our legal reach is greatly diminished, more so since they came of age.”

 

“I see,” Daryus says, and crosses his ankles. “Though if I recall correctly, haven’t the provisions been hidden for several Council reigns now?”

 

“Around the seventh Council turnover, the provisions were buried under legal jargon,” you concede. “We did our best to keep it a fanciful addition, a hope for the future more than actual law.”

 

“And here we are, in the twelfth era, dealing with the consequences,” Zhudis says, laying down the report and glaring into the fireplace. “It would’ve been all well and good if young Megido hadn’t uncovered it in her relentless discovery of past artifacts.”

 

“So Aradia knows,” Daryus says slowly. You nod. “Do the others?”

 

“It’s safe to assume so, but Aradia can be strange,” you say. “It’s possible she was young enough that she didn’t think much of it at the time and didn’t share her findings.”

 

“I wonder she didn’t bring it up at our last meeting,” Zhudis muses. “Could’ve forgotten. Children often do.”

 

“Forgotten or not,” you say grimly, “her discovery was enough. We can’t in good conscience ignore the Disciple’s writ, not without facing devastating consequences should it come to light.”

 

“Look around, Payter,” Zhudis snaps. “Our authority is already falling to pieces around our ears. They’re willful upstarts, but with the backing of our most central piece of governing history, they’re dangerous willful upstarts. They reject our advice, they ignore our orders. If something isn’t done, the Council as a whole will be rendered obsolete.”

 

“It seems the best course of action would be to surrender to their authority,” Daryus says, folding his arms. “If we remain close, we can salvage what power we can.”

 

“Look at the direction they’re taking,” you reply. “Look at what’s happening. Within three perigees we’ll likely be embroiled in all Empire conflicts, tied to them so tightly we’ll fall with them.” You rub your temples. “This all sounded so simple at the start.”

 

“Your first indication should have been the quadrantlocking,” Zhudis says. You ball up a piece of paper and throw it at him. It bounces off his face. “Get mad at me all you want, but we made a grave miscalculation. Time to put our big troll pants on and deal with the problem.”

 

“Suppose,” Daryus says, in a soft voice you can barely hear, “suppose the contract were to be violated in some way.”

 

You and Zhudis look at him, the air suddenly humming with tension. Governing a large body of belligerent creatures is no easy feat, and you are no stranger to getting your hands dirty for the greater good. None of you on the Council are, especially not you three Elders. But Daryus…Daryus is the spymaster for the Council, unknown to all but you and Zhudis, and you know that tone of voice. His gentle face looks an odd home to the sudden sharpness of his burgundy eyes.

 

“Violated?” you say lightly.

 

Daryus smiles. The action is normally benign. “Let’s examine both the treaty and the Second Coming provisions. Both hinge on the existence of our beloved clade, in particular the Scion of Suffering. An attempt has already been made on his life. He’s weak, he’s fragile. The entire conference has been moving ahead with rather unnatural smoothness, has it not?”

 

“Come out and say what you mean, Daryus, quit beating around the bush,” Zhudis barks. You don’t even bother trying to silence him, your eyes fixed on Daryus.

 

“I’m just saying that they’re suspicious, the fruits of our treaty. We’ve lost land, we’ve lost economic ground, we’ve nearly lost our heir. Highbloods are known for having mind-altering powers in abundance.” Daryus laces his fingers together. “It would be remiss of us, as guardians of the Second Coming, to not protect our charges when they are so clearly in danger, surrounded by the spawn of our most lethal enemies. Perhaps our minds were altered, to have put the clade in danger so. They are still so young, so inexperienced. They need us, now that we’ve shaken off the mind-controlling effects of the Empire spies.”

 

You contemplate all the implications of Daryus’ speech, lacing your fingers together. Zhudis’ scowl doesn’t reveal much more than his bad temper, but his eyes are interested.

 

“It would look foolish to backtrack on everything we’ve said thus far,” you say after a long moment. “Even if our minds fell prey to Empire meddling.”

 

“Would producing the bodies of the spies look foolish?” Daryus says lightly. “There are more than a few trolls on the cooler end of the spectrum who made their home here long ago, perhaps worming their way into our society just for that purpose.”

 

“And the people who knew the spies?” Zhudis grunts. “Did they know? Would they be able to believe their loved ones capable of it?”

 

“Oh, I’m sure we could wring all sorts of things out of them, if pressed,” Daryus chuckles. “If they cause trouble, I mean.”

 

You know when you’re treading dangerous water, and letting Daryus speak further would be like inviting a shark into your ablutions trap. He smiles, hands folded over his round stomach, looking for all the world like a jolly elderly patriarch. Zhudis looks at you. The yellow high in his cheeks makes him look like he’s about to explode, his mouth clenched, eyes burning into yours. You know that look: he’s waiting to see how you react before he presents his opinion. As usual, the ball is in your court, Payter Simune, and your next words will decide the fate of worlds. You consider them carefully.

 

Before you can open your mouth, all three of your palmhusks explode with sound, and Zhudis swears, wrestling his out of his pocket. You pick yours up from your desk, Daryus produces his from his shirt pocket, and together you read the blinking headline.

 

**HER IMPERIOUS CONDESCENSION IS DEAD. THE EMPRESS KICKS THE BUCKET: FULL STORY INSIDE.**

 

“Well, then,” you say, when you can speak. Zhudis and Daryus both open their mouths, and you hold up your hand. They stop. “Let’s see how this plays out before we do anything drastic. This could work to our favor.”

 

“Of course,” Daryus says, and his eyes dim back into elderly goodwill. “Whatever you think, Payter.”

 

“Yeah,” Zhudis grunts, flicking through the story you’ve yet to read. You’ll wait for the confirmation from the treaty summit. Truth be told, you’re relieved, for a variety of reasons.

 

You tuck Daryus’ proposal in the back of your mind, for a rainy day.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 413 you N3RDS!

==>)(IC: Kick the bucket

 

That sort of vulgar phrase was always one of your favorites when discussing death; you can only hope the Empire circulates it when the medicullers find your wasted body floating belly-up in the medical goo. Won’t be long; the weak strands of life draining from your limbs ticks down like an incendiary detonation device. Clock strikes noon, down the drain you go, Empress.

 

You dismissed attendants.  You fired servants. You made sure the room is good and empty most times. Ain’t nobody gonna witness this but the trolls responsible for your care, and you gave instructions to have them executed post-mortem. Your head itches with regrowing hair. What skin you have left pulses like exposed nerves. If you sit quiet-like you think you can hear the little monsters munching away at your fleshy bits. Your eyes close, or maybe were always closed, you ain’t that lucid these days. Flesh-eating bacteria don’t leave much behind.

 

You’ve reflected long and hard over your sweeps and sweeps of life, what you built, what you lost. You held so tight to everything you won, you conquered and scarfed worlds and devoured entire galaxies, just to say you had it. And it was sweet, hella fresh, as your fauxrail used to say. You don’t regret a thing. You had your pick of fly honies to choose from all the days of your life, all the cash in the universe, hair for days, a body trolls killed themselves for. Perfect manicure, shiny smile, trident bathed in blood of all colors. Some stories lowbloods like telling feature cruel rulers at the end of their lives regretting all their evil deeds. Not you. You were a BAD-BASS B--EACH and loved every second of it.

 

(Tiny whispers poke at your pan, remind you of weak moments, of mistakes. Of a hundred different lives you wish you’d spared only after the fact, of more you should’ve taken. Misplaced trust. Broken hearts. Nope, no time for self-reflection. Only awesome montage of your glamorous life now.)

Truth be told, you thought death couldn’t touch you. But there she is, her hair up all elegant and straight what like yours never even thought about, plump red lips, legs stretching miles, the fading color vortex of Time in her eyes. She looks down at you and there is no pity, there is no vindication. She just looks. Ain’t nothing left to give or get betwixt you two.

 

“Here to escort me to hell, Damara?” you croak, barely able to use your throatbox now. “Took you long enough.”

 

“And here I thought you were incapable of giving up the fish puns,” she says, and you wheeze. “In a manner of speaking, yes, that’s why I’m here.”

 

“Manner of speaking,” you murmur, more mouth than voice. She lays her palm against your blistered forehead, and it ain’t a good thing that her fiery redblood hands feel cool against your skin now. “I’m not stuck with Dualscar for a roommate for the rest of eternity, am I?”

 

“No universe would be that cruel,” Death says, and you wheeze again. “Well, some would. But you don’t mind so much in those universes.”

 

“Blargh,” you gurgle.

 

“Time’s up,” she says, her voice chiming. “If you wish your last words to be ‘blargh’, I can work it into your eulogy.”

 

You wince, then struggle, your muscles stretching to the point of snapping as you sit up. Damara doesn’t help. You’d bite her hand if she did.

 

“Now I am Death, destroyer of worlds,” you whisper into the air. “You might be the king, but watch the Queen conquer.”

 

“Poetic,” Damara says, and as your body falls back, you stay put. You feel her hot hands on you, lifting you, tucking your much taller frame against her much smaller body all childlike. You got your hair back. And your kickin’ bod. No strength to it. You look at the rotted husk where you used to live and spit, but it’s ecto goop now, so it doesn’t go far. “Easy, Meenah. The others are waiting.”

 

“I knew you were a bald-faced liar,” you say, feeling very tired and laying your head up against her bony shoulder. Damara smiles, reality shimmering about you, the warp of billions of sweeps passing you by like a gentle breeze. “I’m gonna have to talk to all of ‘em, aren’t I.”

 

“Most of them,” she corrects, and you let your head flop back to look up at her. Her face is serene, perfect but for the creases in her eyes. She old, you think, she way old. It makes you feel much better about death, somehow.

 

“Throw me a bone, Damz,” you say. “Show me a little taste of what I’m leaving.”

 

She glances down at you, rolls her eyes, and hefts you up more securely.

 

“Just a taste,” she says, and shows you a vision.

 

You ain’t sure you like what you see. But it is what it is.

 

“Beachin’,” you say, and Damara gives the tiniest of sighs. You chuckle.

 

“Alright, Meenah. Seriously. Time to go.”

 

“That was good,” you snicker as her mouth twitches. “Time to go. I seal what you did there.”

 

“And I thought Cronus was bad about it,” she says. You cringe. “Too late now, Meen. We made our slime, now we’re gonna lie in it.”

 

“Balls,” you mutter as Time flows and the fabric of everything you don’t know stretches to Damara’s whim.

 

Sayonara, existence. It was fun while it lasted.

 

==>Terezi: Do Your Job

 

On it, thanks, voiceless narrator. You’ve been at it for several hours, ever since the news dropped. You were in the middle of a negotiation involving spacecrafts (this argument has been going nowhere for nights now, you swear Vriska resurrects these topics just to be contrary), going nowhere fast, when all palmhusks in the room went off, flashing the headline in blinking fuchsia and gold. It was quite delicious, actually, but your sniffer went directly to Feferi, whose spine went almost audibly rigid a few beats after Karkat, stunned, read it aloud.

 

“Well…horsefeathers,” Equius said quietly, and a manic giggle swept the room.

 

“What now?” Eridan asked, and you felt his eyes glance your way, but you trained your attention on your Heiress—Empress, you corrected yourself. Her eyes were wide, hands shaking, her palmhusk long tumbled to the table and forgotten, and it occurred to you all of a sudden just how young she was—how young you all are. Karkat, for the first time in several nights, hesitantly reached forward and put his hand directly on her shoulder. The immediate jump seemed to startle the entire room as much as it did Feferi, and she seemed to remember she wasn’t alone in the block.

 

“I…” she said, and swallowed hard. “Let’s call it a night. I’ll talk to you all about our next steps tomorrow.”

 

None of you objected. Sollux stopped by to see if you needed anything (Mr. Appleberry is so sweet and attentive, when he wants to be), and Vriska, looking rough but ultimately smug, wanted a word she never got in when she and Sollux made eye contact, and you know the one person in the room who’s been aching to talk to you for a while now is sneaking surreptitious glances your way, but you excused yourself from it all. Right now you have a chat client open and a stick of red chalk in your teeth, occasionally making a notation on your notes with it before shoving it back in your mouth.

 

_1S 1T TRU3 SH3 H4D TH3 DOCT3RROR1STS 4LL K1LL3D?_

_2ure IIs. word on the 2treet II2 that there2 a coalIItIIon of brIIneblood2 and clown cultII2t2 ready two take over a2 2oon a2 the funeral proce22 II2 all done wIIth_

_TH4T’S V3RY CONC3RN1NG. 4NY WORD ON TH3 GR4ND H1GHBLOOD?_

_nope. a2 far a2 II can tell he2 a2 good a2 out of the pIIcture. kIInda weIIrd 2IInce youd thIInk hed jump at an opportunIIty lIIke thII2_

_4SSUM1NG H1S GO4L W4S TO T4K3 OV3R, WH1CH 1S F4R FROM 4 G1V3N. 1 TH1NK 1T’S F1N4LLY S4F3 TO RUL3 TH4T OUT._

_2o what do you want two do_

The big question, Ms. Very Important Spymaster. What do you want to do? Well, frankly, you want to sink into your very comfortable bed and sleep and pretend you aren’t dreaming about a cool and familiar set of seadweller hands running themselves up and down your skin, and maybe a hot bath to follow. But none of those things will help the Empire, or the Nation, or the treaty. It won’t even help you, in a way; they’re distractions from the task at hand. Truthfully, until you know Feferi’s plans, you won’t be able to make very many moves, and she’s been holed up in her respite block all morning. Karkles himself seemed content to camp out in the cafeteria, and it wasn’t like he was alone. The Nation clade seemed to gravitate towards him more forcefully than usual, though you’ve been noticing the spaces they’ve been leaving to be filled by Empire clade as well. Progress, you think with satisfaction.

 

_UNT1L F3F3R1 G1V3S 4N 1ND1C4T1ON OF H3R THOUGHTS, MY H4NDS 4R3 T13D. YOUR JOB 1S TO US3 WH4T3V3R M3THODS YOU C4N TO 4SS1ST H3R, WH3N TH3 T1M3 COM3S 4ND 1F YOU’R3 UP FOR 1T._

_not lIIke IIve got much el2e goIIng on. wIIth the fII2h wIItch gone, II dont have a lot of tIIme left tbh._

You hadn’t considered that, and it fills you with sadness. Mr. Banana Supreme has become something of a friend and mentor in the few sweeps you’ve been able to correspond with him. But without a steady supply of weird immortal life energy flooding his system, he will be dying quite soon.

 

_dont do the thIIng where you get all up2et. IIve lIIved way longer than anyone IIn my ca2te 2hould ever have had two worry about. death II2 a welcome luxury at thII2 poIInt._

_B3 TH4T 4S 1T M4Y, B4N4N4 SUPR3M3, 1 W1LL M1SS YOU T3RR1BLY._

_II have a name you know_

_1 KNOW. BUT YOU’R3 OLD 4ND DY1NG, L3T M3 SHOW YOU AFF3CT1ON TH3 ONLY W4Y 1 KNOW HOW._

_IIf II wa2nt already halfway there youd be the death of me 2quIIrt_

You type a parting shot, delete it, and close with a simple farewell and a promise to get in touch soon. You are making contingency plans upon contingency plans; every outcome will be accounted for, so far as you can predict. The Empress’ death, the lull in rebel fighting, the shrinking Empire-owned Frontier space, the Grand Highblood, assassination attempts, political opposition on all sides, threat of war from even more sides…it’s enough to set your head spinning. But that may also be the sleep deprivation.

 

You no longer care to check if Eridan is camping outside your door again. You were disgusted at first, then amused, then indifferent. You don’t have much experience with quadrant vacillation, but you’re pretty sure you aren’t flipping pitch right now. You’re…disappointed, and hurt, and really done talking about this. There’s nothing to talk about. Your secret matesprit embarrassed and insulted you publicly out of jealousy, and you aren’t required to give him the time of day. It’s not like anybody knew.

 

But you knew. And he knew. And when you find a wayward golden button hiding in your scalemate pile, cast aside from some shirt or another of his, your blood-pusher throbs. You can’t ignore your personal life forever, Pyrope. You miss him like a tooth, like a broken claw, like the snapped heel of your favorite pumps. You’ll manage just fine without. But it causes a sickening swoop in your stomach, sometimes, when you wake up alone and disoriented and cold. Like missing a step on the stairs.

 

Enough with the metaphors. It’s time to use the sleep, because otherwise you’ll be useless in the evening. You turn on Troll Judge Judy, then hesitate and turn her off. For once in your life, you want silence.

 

==>

 

Feferi comes to breakfast the next morning regal, in full facepaint, no less. Gamzee has fuchsia smudges on his fingertips which tell quite plainly who helped her, because it wasn’t Karkat; he slept in a shockingly quadrant-blurred pile of clade members yesterday, not uncommon with them, but easy to smell the next night. Feferi is decked out like an Empress, but not like her predecessor. Her Imperious Condescension wore body suits like a second skin, showing everything, accentuating everything. Feferi favors a gown, diaphanous and floaty. It camouflages her body already well-used to fighting (and quite recovered from her healing ordeal, you might add; she smells super-mega-awesome-foxy-hot).

 

“We will be meeting in the great hall today,” she says in a cool, aloof voice. “The dignitaries and remaining Nation representatives will be joining us, and the event will be livestreamed.” Then she quirks a smile. “So look your best, okay?”

 

You hear Tavros, of all people, swear under his breath, and Aradia’s amused hum as she pats his shoulder. His official getup does smell rather constricting, you suppose. Or what you remember of it. You were very drunk when you got a nostril-full of his appearance. No time to think about that, because you need to speak with her before she announces what she’s about to do. To your displeasure, Eridan is also making a beeline for her, but you won’t be dissuaded from your course. Neither will he, it turns out.

 

“Terezi,” Feferi says warmly. “I’ve been netting to talk to you, I manta do so yesterday—”

 

“It’s fine,” you say, waving your hand. “I assume it’s about the retreat requests I was forwarded?” Eridan, standing beside you, is doing his best to appear nonchalant, but waves of anxiety are pouring off of him like a sickly gas and you don’t want to choke, so you take the tiniest step away.

 

“Yes,” Feferi nods. “I wanted to know if you’d heard anemone conchtradictory intelligence. Or corresponding intelligence, I don’t want to be restrictive.”

 

“What I can gather is that we should absolutely be looking to pull back,” you say. “We’re getting nowhere with expansion and losing resources faster than we can gain them by staying. Pulling back to strengthen our other colonies would be my recommendation.”

 

“Mine as well,” Eridan says, his voice strangely stiff. “I’ve got the order ready to go, if you want to look over the wording.”

 

“I trust you,” Feferi says, and lays her hand on both your arm and his. “Both of you. I can’t thank you enough for all your kelp.”

 

“Anything for my Empress,” you say with a huge smile and wink. “Though this isn’t want I wanted to talk to you about, currently.”

 

“Oh?” Feferi says. You very pointedly clear your throat, but Eridan doesn’t move.

 

“If the General would excuse us,” you say, and you can practically taste the set of Eridan’s jaw as he makes a short bow to Feferi and stalks away. Feferi’s curiosity is equally palpable, but not your concern right now. “I just want to make sure you’re doing okay. And that you’re not planning on doing something reckless on intergalactic television.”

 

“Reckless? Me?” Feferi laughs, and you laugh along with her. In a way, it is truly funny; her tenure as Heiress has been as mild-mannered as she is, almost to the point of being spineless, if you were to be critical. “I’m alright, Terezi. I’ve been thinking long and hard aboat our next move, and I know that if this works, we’ll be finally moving in a constructive direction.” She smiles and touches your arm. “I’ve got to talk to Karcrab now.”

 

“Have at it,” you say, and walk away to find your partners. They should be making spade eyes at each other somewhere around…here we go. You grab Sollux by the elbow and Vriska by the bicep and with a cheery “Let’s go!” muscle both of them into an unused conference block.

 

“What’s thith about, TZ?” Sollux lisps adorably at you.

 

“Some of us have other things to do, you know,” Vriska says boredly, tossing her hair, and you ignore her juvenile body language with the practice of someone who’s been doing it for sweeps.

 

“Not right now, you don’t,” you say. “Two things: one, we need to be prepared for whatever Feferi has in store, so I’ll only say this once. Is there anything important either of you need to tell me regarding our enemies or our allies? Anything at all?”

 

“The Nation ith thtill pretty methed up about the attack,” Sollux says, “but we’re containing the thituation.”

 

“The evacuation orders seem to have gone through,” Vriska sighs, flipping through her palmhusk. “New reports of rebel movement, a few rumors floating around about the Grand Highblood laughing his gigglebox out over the Empress’ death.”

 

“Okay,” you say, and pull up your email on your husktop. “I’m going to send you both a document of responses I want us to consider while Feferi makes her speech. Sollux, feel free to pass it on to Nepeta, but keep it just between Spymaster network personnel, please.”

 

“This thing is fifty pages long,” Vriska complains. “Am I supposed to read this tripe right now?”

 

“Thoroughly,” you say, and smile big, with all your teeth. “I’ve thought of nearly every situation that could possibly arise from today and tried to compensate. Feel free to act on any solution you see listed, but if you think of one I didn’t, let me know. Immediately.”

 

“I nothithe you don’t have a contingenthy for the treaty breaking up,” Sollux says, scanning at light speed, apparently.

 

“Because at this point, it’s highly unlikely,” you reply. “And if it should look that way, we should stop it at all costs.”

 

Vriska and Sollux share a look, distinctly flavored with tones of calculation and unease. You sigh. “It’s time we stop looking at each other as separate entities, in my book,” you say, and their eyes widen, according to your acute nose. “If she’s smart, she’ll realize that as close as we are to completing all negotiations of the treaty, the best course of action would be to start drafting a re-assimilation plan, or we’ll tear each other apart before trollkind ever gets the chance to recuperate.”

 

Sollux opens his mouth, then closes it with a displeased twist. “It’th rithky,” he says, more to himself than to you and Vriska. “It’ll take tho long for it to be fully implemented.”

 

“Unless all Empire holdings were to collapse,” Vriska says, more thoughtfully than you like. “If we were forced to evacuate back to the homeland, that would expedite the process.”

 

“And wreck our economy,” Sollux says darkly. “Pothibly kill uth all.”

 

“Or possibly save us all,” she counters. “Even if we were reduced down to the nearest twelve or thirteen star systems—”

 

“That’s a discussion for another day,” you butt in firmly. “Let’s worry about tonight for now. Good PR and making sure Feferi’s ascension is smooth. Alright?”

 

“Cool,” Sollux grunts, and Vriska makes a small impatient noise in her throat but nods.

 

“Now let’s get dressed, and get good seats,” you say, and stride out of the room, beaming. “Save me one, Appleberry!”

 

“Thtop calling me that,” Sollux deadpans, and you cheerily wave as you make your way back to your block.

 

==>

 

The great hall is not nearly as crowded as it was during the quadrantlocking ceremony. Empire dignitaries have mostly been sticking around for the fine dining and atmosphere; as far as political power goes, Empire politicians had very little, thanks to the Condesce’s iron fist. You can taste the apprehension in the air, the raw hunger, like sharks with blood in the water. Your stomach clenches with unease, but you school yourself back into a carefree and slightly unhinged temperament.

 

As a group, both clades now sit mixed together in the front row. On your right is Sollux, on your left Equius, and Nepeta on the other side of him, and Tavros next to her, and so on down the line. Karkat is standing near the dais where Feferi will make her appearance, smelling extremely delicious and cherry-red in a heavily embroidered cloak thrown over what seems to you like ridiculously high pants. At any rate his wince is visible even to you, but you refrain from cackling.

 

The livestream cameras are set up in no time at all, and with a traditional trumpet ditty Feferi sweeps into the room, climbing the dais with grace and schooling her face into the haughtiest you’ve ever smelled her. She radiates power, from the set of her spine to the 2x3dent in her hand.

 

“Trolls of the Empire,” Feferi says, “my name is Feferi Peixes, spawned from Her Imperious Condescension herself. By bloodright, I am Empress, with the Condesce’s passing.” An audible murmur sweeps through the more finned portion of the crowd, but doesn’t break above a whisper. You keep your senses trained on her. “She left an Empire in shambles—our colonies under fire, our pride beaten, the leader of our Most Mirthful Church on the run for treason, our people floating aimlessly in space.” Feferi shifts her weight, quirks a sardonic smile. “She was a nasty beach and we’re better off without that old hag now.” A much louder wave of murmurs, this time punctuated with ugly laughter.

 

“I don’t know that I’m any better than she was, but I do know that I’m more determined to save trollkind, rather than propagate my own ego. As a species, we’re prone to that.” Feferi smirks again, then grips her 2x3dent and extends her hand. As if on cue, Karkat steps up to take it. “Under my reign, the rift between the Empire and the Nation of Warmbloods is going to close. We’re going to do it, Empire; we’re going to break through sweeps and sweeps of barnacle-crusted old tradition and embrace a new chapter.

 

“I don’t expect immediate results,” Feferi continues, her voice raised over the increasingly louder commentary from the floor. “But with their help, we’re going to crush the resistance from Derse and Prospit. We’re going to protect our colonies, to acquire a new Mother Grub to circulate our genetic slurry once again, and we’re going to start acting like trolls instead of beasts. And anyone who doesn’t like it,” Feferi says, her voice immediately becoming ice, “can step up now and fight me for it.”

 

The silence following this remark is deafening. You admit, you hadn’t counted on that. Trial by combat is still a live practice in troll law, and gog knew your idiotic, warlike race would one day kill itself off if higher thinking wasn’t ingrained into people like you who wormed their way into leadership. But to actively invite attacks—

 

“And I second it,” Karkat says loudly. “Someone’s already tried to do me in, and they failed.” The cameras probably can’t capture such a slight movement, but your senses do—his fingers tighten around hers. “Enough’s enough. Our population numbers are on the decline in the Nation. We occupy less than sixty percent of habitable spaces on our gog-forsaken planet. We need this treaty to work, and it’s going to, even if I have to knock all your stupid skulls together myself. Anyone looking to fight Her Imperious Luminescence is going to contend with me, too, the Scion of Suffering, Grubloaf of Life, The Mothergrubbing Prince of Gogsucking Peace, and I swear on my ancestor I will wring your shameglobes up through your throatstem if you so much as think about putting a claw on her.”

 

Nepeta makes the tiniest of squeals, and you grin, yourself. This is going better than you’d hoped, when Feferi started talking. At the end of the row, Gamzee shifts, and it’s the way he shifts that catches your attention, like he’s concealing a broken rib. He was moving just fine earlier, if a little jerkier than normal. He’s been acting oddly the past few weeks. You make a note to investigate, then turn your attention to the rest of the crowd. There’s definite anger in the air, the scent akin to sharks stronger. There’s a powder keg starting to brew, one with a very short fuse.

 

“As my ancestor once said,” Karkat continues, “come at me, bro. We’re doing this. We’re making this happen. And you can either get with the program, or get out.”

 

“Consider this my coronation ceremony,” Feferi says, shaking back her mass of hair and reaching out for an attendant’s offered pillow, on top of which is a diadem of gold and tyrian gems that once sat on the Condesce’s brow. She places it daintily on her own head, and smiles sweetly, showcasing her even rows of predatory teeth. “Long live the Queen.”

 

Feferi makes a small gesture, and the cameras cut off. Once they’re off, the room explodes in deafening shouts, Empire dignitaries and Nation representatives alike on their feet and howling. Feferi doesn’t shrink, like you’d expect, but she does seem small against the tide of anger hurled her way, and so does Karkat, so you stand and make your way up to the dais. To your pleasant surprise, you aren’t alone; Tavros goes with you, and the rest follow to file in front of your leaders, shoulder to shoulder as if to create a barricade. Gamzee seems twitchy when he moves, it really worries you more to see him like this when your entire life he’s moved languidly and lazily, schlepping from one end of life to the other. Are you the only one who’s noticed? No, you think, as you smell Karkat’s delicious red eyes flick his way more than once. But no time to think about that, there’s a wall of vitriol flying in your face and it would be rude to ignore it. Somehow Eridan managed to stand next to you and you bristle.

 

The shouts continue for a solid five minutes, some weapons drawn, and you watch it calmly. You expect much the same is going on in the other settlements and cities. Change is never accepted gracefully. You can only imagine what the Elders are doing back in the Nation’s capital. A chair is thrown, and Eridan shifts, when did he get his rifle? Did he have it the entire time? He must have, because it’s in his hands now, blue and menacing and huge. You ease your sword in its cane sheath, and down the row, other weapons are produced by the clades. Even Sollux’s eyes are sparking, and miasma is gushing from Gamzee strong enough to set your teeth on edge. Vriska, next to him, pales, but stands steadily.

 

The first idiot runs at your line of allies and gets the blunt end of a lance to the gills. She rocks back, gasping, and possibly a quadrantmate of hers runs up in her place. He is also swiftly repelled, this time by a warning shot past his ear. Your race is like this, you think as the mob swells. You have to prove your strength this way, because that’s all that really matters, strength. Bloodshed. You’d call it barbaric but your own blood is humming with anticipation.

 

Besides, a show of force may be what it takes to keep your unruly citizens in line.


End file.
